The Great Leap
by Nutterfly
Summary: Sam Leaps into a war where even Ziggy can't predict what his mission might be.
1. Chapter 1

**The Great Leap**

Chapter 1

Sam Beckett had Leaped more than enough times now to recognize the familiar feeling. He was about to bounce someone out and take their place for all intents and purposes. There would be some mission to accomplish, some wrong to put right. But first he would have to figure out just who he'd Leaped into and how to pretend he was that person.

He felt like he was moving at great speed, though one corner of his mind commented that the sensation might be a part of the Leap process. The blue aura receded and, with all of his senses alert, he took stock of his new surroundings. He was seated in a small space with his head and shoulders sticking out in the open air. He could feel a strong but steady vibration through his buttocks and back, and a cold wind blowing past him though he could feel a current of warm air as well. He raised gloved hands to feel the vague form of goggles covering his eyes and protecting them from the wind. He could see the sleeves of a heavy leather jacket, despite which he was already feeling chilled.

The person he'd Leaped into had been looking to the right; Sam could see a long rectangular ribbed structure that appeared to be tightly covered in painted cloth; he could see a large square patch glued to the far end. Beyond that was nothing but blue sky and a few puffy white clouds in the far distance. He began to get a bad feeling about this. Looking overhead he saw that a pair of primitive wings met above his head. _Oh, no_ he thought. _Not another airplane again._ Then with a touch of panic, _I don't know how to fly!_

He turned to face the front and realized there was nothing in front of him but a cowling with a big gun mounted atop it and his legs extended under the wooden framework of the plane. There were no controls in this cockpit. He twisted his body around to see behind him, noting that he wasn't wearing any kind of harness or seat belt. He was afraid to move too much, but out of the corner of his eye he could see another goggled figure in a similar seat behind him. He turned back around and sighed with relief. He wasn't flying the plane after all.

Sam settled down to enjoy the ride as there wasn't much else to do at the moment. He was too bundled up to dig in his pockets for identification and, between the thunder of the engine and the singing of the thin wires that kept the wings taught and true, he couldn't hear anything the pilot might say. He looked over the end of the wing, though he doubted he would recognize any landmarks. He estimated they were flying at 80 mph which seemed a little slow, but maybe that was all this old bi-plane could do. It was a bumpy ride.

The land below appeared to be a patchwork of fields. They were green with crops or grass which made him wonder what time of year it was. Surely it wouldn't be so cold in summer, so it must be spring or autumn. The current of warm air must be engine heat. He noticed that condensation was blowing off the trailing edge of the wing and now that he had the leisure to think about it he could feel moisture in the wind blowing past him.

He could smell gasoline and there was something else too, that he couldn't quite place. He felt something wet trickle down his face and reached up to wipe it away; it left a greasy-feeling trail on his cheeks. He sniffed the fingertips of the gloves and after a moment identified the sweet odor of burnt castor oil. Carefully he craned his head out the side of the cockpit and saw dirty streaks along the nose of the plane. Was the engine leaking? Sam supposed that was possible with an old engine, but it made him nervous nonetheless. It wasn't safe; the smallest spark could ignite the fuel, and the wood and cloth plane would go up like a torch.

Another fear crept into his mind – he was afraid of heights. Except it hadn't seemed to bother him to look down at the ground. He looked out again to see if he felt differently now that he'd remembered his phobia but he was so high up that it didn't seem real. Logically he knew that a fall from this height would probably kill him but the occasional farmhouse looked more like a dollhouse and because of the scale his mind couldn't comprehend the distance.

He wondered where he was and what he was doing here. Was the plane participating in an air show, maybe with a group of similar antiques? He looked left and right but didn't see another airplane anywhere in the sky. Was he taking a joyride? Maybe the guy he'd Leaped into had always wanted to fly in an open-cockpit bi-plane. That would be too bad because he'd have appreciated it a lot more than Sam was. Nor did it make much sense for Sam to Leap in at this moment…unless something bad was about to happen. Though what Sam could possibly do if the plane crashed he didn't know.

He twisted in his seat again to look behind him and saw another plane closing in. _This must be an air show,_ he thought. The other airplane had three wings, was painted bright red, and he could clearly see a large Maltese cross on the rudder. But there was something not right about this; they were too high up to be seen easily from the ground and the best he could tell they'd been flying in a straight line instead of circling an airfield.

Suddenly bits of wood and fabric erupted from the left wing beside him, leaving small neat round holes. They were being shot at!

Sam scooted as far to the right as possible in the tiny cockpit and tried to analyze the situation. Was this some kind of re-enactment? Squib hits could've been attached to the underside of the wing and triggered by the pilot at the right time to simulate shots. If so, where was the camera plane? He supposed they could be filming from the ground, but then why bother faking the bullet holes? Had he Leaped into a stuntman again? He vaguely remembered having to do a "little fall" on that Leap, and how terrifying it had been. Surely that couldn't be the case this time because he had no parachute, which was worrying in itself.

At that moment the pilot banked the plane, turning it over to the left. To Sam it felt like the whole plane was pivoting around the tip of its wing and he grabbed the edge of the cockpit so he wouldn't feel like he was going to fall out. The plane behind them had stopped firing and was trying to match their turn. Sam's scientific mind automatically saw what the other pilot apparently didn't; starting from a point behind his prey and aiming at the same destination caused his turn radius to be smaller and he ended up to their left instead of staying behind them as he'd intended.

As Sam watched, the red plane flew by them so close that he could see the pilot's face. It passed them and soared on ahead. He wasn't at all sure what was happening, and turned to see his own pilot. The man was pointing his index finger with his thumb at a right angle in a kid's imitation of a gun. He alternated this gesture with pointing frantically at the gun mounted in front of Sam.

Turning around again Sam now saw a pair of long, deep parallel gashes snaking through the earth below. The ground between them was barren and pitted. It looked like a war zone. Maybe they were making a war movie after all; if so he'd better play his part. He reached up to take hold of the gun, fiddled with it a moment until he understood how the trigger mechanism worked, then fired a continuous line of bullets at the red plane ahead. Every few rounds there was a red tracer to show where the bullets were going. He hoped they weren't real bullets, and wasn't really trying to hit the other plane.

His pilot however seemed to have other ideas, making subtle course corrections so the deadly stream intersected with the 'enemy' plane. Smoke began pouring out of its engine and the plane began to dive. Sam stopped shooting and his pilot banked again, circling to observe the other plane's descent. As they watched the red plane crashed headfirst into the middle of a field. Sam waited, horrified, to see if the pilot got out. He did, running as fast as he could away from the plane. He hadn't gone far when it burst into flames, the force of the blast knocking him down. No emergency vehicles appeared to rescue him or put out the flames.

Sam's pilot flew on toward the northwest, crossing the trenches below. Sam was stunned. Those had been real bullets after all, and he'd just been in a real dogfight. But in a bi-plane? What year had he Leaped into? "Oh, boy!" he yelled into the wind.

They flew on for several minutes while Sam tried to come to grips with the fact that he'd just shot an airplane out of the sky. Knowing the pilot hadn't been killed helped, but that had been sheer luck. He'd killed people before during the course of a Leap, but there had always been a very good reason for doing it. Surely GFTW hadn't Leaped him into the middle of a war to have him shoot blindly at some unknown foe. And if his mission had been to save the pilot he'd have already Leapt out again.

Sam came out of his reverie when he heard the engine shut off. He looked around, surprised to see they were still in the air. The engine fired up again. Ahead of the plane he could see what looked like nothing more than a mowed field with huge tents and a scattering of small buildings around the edges. The plane was losing altitude as they approached.

The engine cut out again for a few seconds and came back on. This seemed to be the only way the pilot had to slow their speed, but it was unnerving to Sam. He braced himself for the landing, reasoning that it wasn't going to be smooth. It wasn't. The plane bounced, hit the ground again and slewed to one side.

The pilot corrected the swerve and the plane bumped along the ground, headed for the tents. When they were close to one of them he swung the plane around so the tent was behind them, then shut off the engine. Several young men ran out of the tent to help them climb out of the plane. Sam was very glad to be on solid ground again.

He and the pilot both pulled off their gloves, goggles and leather flying caps. The pilot peered at Sam's face and said, "I say old man, are you all right? You look a little green." He spoke with a British accent.

"I, uh, I think I'm okay," Sam replied. Then on second thought he added, "I do feel a little sick to my stomach." He took no offense at being called 'old man', knowing that was a common British expression.

"I do hope it wasn't my flying," the pilot said, laughing. "It's likely just the castor oil; you may have to visit the latrine a few times, though I rather doubt you swallowed enough to make you very ill."

"I hope not," Sam told him. "But I think it was shooting down that red plane that's upset me; I hadn't expected to do that." That was an understatement, but maybe it would encourage the pilot to explain the situation so he could begin to figure out what was going on here. Wherever – and whenever – this was.

The pilot grinned and clapped Sam on the shoulder in a gesture of camaraderie. "Good job you did or it would've been us crashing," he said. His face took on a hangdog expression. "It's my fault, really. I'm afraid I wasn't very careful. I should've known the west wind would push us over the line. It's too bad, really, because there wasn't anyone with us to confirm your kill."

"But he wasn't killed!" Sam exclaimed. "Didn't you see him run away just before his plane burst into flames?"

"Indeed I did but it still counts as a kill, old man. It's better to take out the pilot because they're harder to replace, but at least the Huns will have to pay to replace that aeroplane. Which, if you remember, is why you were up there today so we can fix this one instead of scrapping it."

Sam turned to look at the plane only to realize that the ground crew was busily pushing it under the huge tent. _There couldn't be too much wrong with it if they'd been flying it, could there?_ he thought rather uneasily. He remembered that he had some mechanical knowledge of the shade-tree variety, but it was anybody's guess if the Swiss-cheese effect of Leaping would bring it back to him when he needed it. Just then he saw the Imaging Chamber door open and Al step out and look around. He was wearing white shorts and a garish Hawaiian shirt covered with over-sized Hibiscus flowers in shades of peach and oxblood red amidst green palm leaves.

"Oh, wow!" Al said. "That's a 'Harry Tate'!" The lustful look on his face was usually reserved for pretty women.

The pilot said, "You gave me the thumbs up, you _did_ figure out what was wrong didn't you? The reason why the engine cuts out in flight?"

"Uh, well, yeah, I think so Harry" Sam replied uncertainly.

"_Sir_!" Al barked, eyes still glued to the plane.

"Mr. Tate, Sir," Sam amended.

Al turned to Sam with a disgusted look. "No, Sam, the _airplane_ is an R.E.8. It stands for 'Reconnaissance Experimental', but the pilots nicknamed them 'Harry Tate'." He pulled the handlink from his pocket and pushed a few buttons. "The _pilot_ is Lieutenant Trevor Browne, of the Royal Air Force."

Lt. Browne had cocked his head to one side and was scrutinizing Sam. "Perhaps you should see the medic, old man. You don't seem to be taking this well at all."

"Yes sir, Lieutenant, sir," Sam said, relieved to have an excuse to speak to Al alone. "Right away, sir."

Lt. Browne began walking away, but paused to look back and shout, "But get back here as soon as you're done and get this plane fixed, Beckett!"

Sam stared at the man's retreating back in shock. "_B-b-Beckett_?" he stammered. He turned to Al in consternation. Memories of another Leap began to come back. "Al, am I…"

Al's smile had turned decidedly mischievous. He clasped his hands behind his back and bounced on the balls of his feet, deliberately dragging out the time before he answered in order to heighten Sam's expectations.

Sam took a couple of steps towards Al and asked, "What's going on here? Where am I? And _when_ am I?"

Al extended an arm in best showmanship fashion, inviting Sam to enter the tent that had recently swallowed up the plane. "Why don't we go in there so we can talk without you looking like you belong in the loony bin." The smile was still in place and he blinked rapidly several times, indicating he wouldn't budge until Sam did as he suggested.

Sam favored him with a glare, drawing his eyebrows down and tightening his lips. But he knew Al was right so, frustrated as he was, he shook his head in resignation and entered the tent. He saw Al appear next to an airplane in the back corner of the tent; Al waved cheerily, the smug look still showing on his face.

There were a few other people in the huge tent so Sam walked behind the bi-plane where he would be less likely to be seen apparently talking to thin air. Al was busily lighting a cigar, puffing out great clouds of blue smoke in the process of getting it to get it to draw.

"Al!" Sam cried. "Don't light that thing in here!" He pointed toward the still-hot engine which was visibly dripping oil. "That engine leaks like a sieve and it's a fire hazard."

Al took a last drag on the cigar to make sure it was burning correctly and turned to look at the plane. "Of _course_ it leaks like a sieve, these old planes used a total-loss oil system. And besides, Sam; I'm a hologram, not a fire hazard. My cigar isn't really here." To demonstrate he held the cigar out in front of himself and deliberately tapped it with his forefinger; a clump of ash fell from the tip but disappeared when it hit the floor.

"Well, _you_ may not be here Al, but _I_ am – and I'd really, really like to know where 'here' is and what's going on," Sam said with a pleading note in his voice. "Lt. Browne called me 'Beckett'," he added as a reminder, though he was sure Al had heard that.

"He also called you 'old man', as I recall," Al smirked. Then he turned serious. "In this case he meant it literally – at 30 years old, you're the oldest man at the aerodrome. The rest of 'em are just kids."

Sam remembered all too well from Leaps to the Civil War and Vietnam War that soldiers were just boys. "I know that," he said. "What I _want_ to know is did I Leap into someone named Beckett?"

Al had no need to consult the handlink. "That's right, Sam. Your name is John Beckett and before you ask we've already taken a blood sample from the guy in the Waiting Room so we'll know pretty soon if he's a relative of yours."

"It's Thursday April 18, 1918," he continued. "You're at the aerodrome near Bertangles, France. You're a mechanic, a Yank working with the British and Canadians here."

Sam stared at Al in disbelief. "I'm in the middle of World War _One_?" he asked.

"Yeah Sam, that's right," Al agreed. "Well, actually it's near the end of the war. The armistice was – will be – whatever - signed on 11/11/1918 at the 11th hour, aboard a rail car of the Orient Express. Did any of your family fight in that war?"

"I don't remember," Sam said, a perplexed look on his face. "John's a common name in my family, it's entirely possible. Dad never liked to dwell on wars, but I don't know if he never said anything about it or if I just can't remember what he said."

"Well, don't worry about it, Sam. We'll find out soon enough, but Ziggy's pretty sure it's another case of genetic transference. It's really the only explanation since according to your theory you can't Leap outside your own lifetime."

"Like when I Leaped into my great-grandfather during the Civil War," Sam mused. "So what am I here to do exactly?"

"It's déjà vu all over again," Al remarked with a smirk at his borrowed pun. Then he turned serious and his gaze met Sam's as he said, "We don't have the foggiest, Sam. Ziggy's working double-time to compute all the possible variables but that's gonna be hard because of the war." He brought up the handlink and turned his attention to its readout.

"Well you'd think I'd have Leaped out already if I'd been here to save that German pilot," Sam muttered.

Al whipped his head up to stare at Sam. "_What_ German pilot?" he asked succinctly.

"Oh, you know, the one I sort of shot down." Sam winced at the statement.

"Shot down," Al reiterated in a deadpan tone. "As in you were flying around in this airplane…" He used the cigar to point to the R.E. 8 beside them. "…and you shot at a German plane?"

"Only after he shot at us first," Sam said reasonably. "His plane crashed, but Lt. Browne circled to check on him and I saw him run away right before his plane exploded."

Al was industriously poking at the buttons on the handlink. Without looking up he asked, "Over Allied territory or German?"

"Over the German side I guess," Sam said. "We flew over the trenches _after_ I shot him down. The lieutenant said the wind had carried us over the lines, so we must've been on the German side."

Al was busily studying the handlink's readout, occasionally whacking it with the palm of his hand when he considered its performance unsatisfactory.

"He said it counted as a 'kill' because the airplane was destroyed," Sam continued. "It seems like such a shame, it was a beautiful all-red plane with three wings. I thought maybe we were flying antique planes in some air show until he crashed. I never realized…"

Al cut him off sharply with, "An all-red _tri_-plane? In WWI? Sam, did you shoot down the Red Baron?"


	2. Chapter 2

Chapter 2

"The Red Baron? The guy that makes the pizzas?" Sam asked in confusion.

"No, Sam, the pizza brand was named after _him_." Al tried not to look disgusted at his friend's memory lapse. "I'm talking about Baron Manfred von Richthofen, the top ace of World War One; otherwise known as the Red Devil or the Red Falcon, the French called him _le rouge teufel_ – but most commonly referred to as the Red Baron. He flew an all-red tri-plane, it was kind of his signature; he was the leader of the Flying Circus."

The thought of 'flying' in a circus brought up more troubled memories for Sam. For a moment he felt himself hanging upside down from the trapeze, swinging back and forth; he swayed a bit and put his hand on the side of the plane to steady himself.

"You okay, Sam?" Al asked in concern. "Maybe you really should see the medic. These old engines burn castor oil, and when it drips out the wind blows it in the pilots' faces; they can't help but swallow it. If you swallow enough of it it gives you dysentery, which was a real problem for these guys."

"I don't think I was up there long enough to swallow that much castor oil," Sam explained. "When you said 'Flying Circus' it made me think of the time I Leaped into the trapeze artist. You _know_ how much I hated that Leap."

"They called it the Flying Circus because all the planes were painted bright colors – blue, yellow, green, red, _et cetera_. And the _Jastas_, the flying squadrons, they were based in tents that could be packed up and sent wherever they were needed fairly quickly. It was really a great idea, they were a lot more mobile than the Allies."

"Okay, I get it," Sam nodded. "The tents and vivid colors reminded people of a circus. It's a happy picture during wartime, and slightly derogatory to the enemy. So did I shoot down this Red Baron?"

"Apparently not," Al replied. "There were other German pilots with red planes, but there's no data about anyone being shot down today. That wouldn't be surprising since you were behind enemy lines and there wasn't another Allied pilot to confirm it. Both sides fudged the data when they could; no one wanted to admit to a loss if they could help it. It made them look more invincible not only to the other side but to the people back home as well."

"So why is the death of this one pilot so critical to the Allied side?" Sam asked.

"Because he shot down 100 planes!" Al exclaimed. "No other pilot came close to that number. Captain Rene Fonck of France claimed 75 victories, he had the second-highest score of the war. Let me just check…" He punched a request into the handlink and reported the result. "Von Richthofen's record stands at 78 kills as of today."

"This guy must be really good at what he does," Sam remarked.

"Well, it's a funny thing," Al began. "You see, he wasn't all that good a pilot, but he was a damn good hunter. He didn't distinguish between hunting four-legged beasts or two-legged. He even had little silver cups made up to commemorate each kill; he had the date and type of plane engraved on them."

Sam looked appalled. "He had trophies made for killing _men_?"

Al nodded. "I know it sounds grisly, but it wasn't all that uncommon during this time period, Sam. The Allied pilots did it too; the Brits seemed to prefer engraved beer mugs. But you see, as the war went on supplies were hard to get and the jeweler eventually ran out of silver. So von Richthofen only got 60 silver cups."

"What a pity!" Sam remarked sarcastically.

"If you could shoot him down today you'd save 22 lives," Al reminded. "As it is he's not killed until nearly the end of the war."

"How can you be sure I'd save all those lives?" Sam asked. "If I change history some of those poor guys might be shot down by some other German pilot. Weren't some of those 'victories' just crashed planes, anyway? Not all 22 pilots were killed."

"You're right, Sam," Al agreed. "But isn't it worth trying? Besides, it would be a tremendous boost to Allied morale if the Red Baron were gone from the skies."

"Well, the Allies seem to have won the war anyway. Al, I just can't believe I'm here to _kill_ some man, no matter how many men _he_ killed. It's not like he's an evil man; he's just a soldier doing his job which happens to be killing the enemy just like the Allied pilots. Besides, I'm a mechanic; how could I possibly shoot down a plane? You seemed a little hesitant when you mentioned the armistice date; is there maybe something I could do to make the war end earlier? That would save a _lot_ of lives, and on _both_ sides!"

"Okay, okay," Al said in a placating tone. "I just got a little carried away when you said you'd shot down a red tri-plane. I _know_ we're in the wrong-righting business, Sam – but ending a war is more than even _you_ can do!"

"They called it World War One for a _reason_," Al continued, in lecture mode now. "At the time it was known as 'The Great War' or 'The War to End All Wars', but it was the first truly global war in mankind's history. The whole of Europe was involved; not just the central countries, but England, Russia, Italy, Greece – _all_ of it. There was fighting in the Middle East, Africa, and even some of the Pacific islands."

"I always thought of it as just the Eastern and Western fronts," Sam said.

"It's estimated that there were 30 million casualties, including civilians," Al stated. "These were the men of the 'Lost Generation'; many small towns lost most of their farmers and laborers. The devastation was unimaginable."

"That was because so many countries were fighting, right?" Sam asked.

"That was part of it, Sam," Al agreed. "But technology was a big part, too. Mankind had invented new and better ways to kill each other _en masse_."

"Technology," Sam repeated. "You mean like better guns?"

"Exactly." Al looked a little disgusted at the thought. "Percussion locks used a cap to ignite the charge through the touch-hole, which was much more reliable than the flint lock. Minié balls used a cloth patch to keep the ball in the barrel so you didn't have to rely on gravity and you could load lying down. Breech-loaders were a lot easier to handle, and rifling made weapons more accurate and gave them a longer range. The Gatling gun was used in the Civil War; it had a rotating barrel while the Maxim gun's barrel was fixed. But they both used cartridges which made it easier to spray a whole lot of bullets real fast."

"Wow!" Sam responded. "You weren't kidding."

"It wasn't just the weapons," Al continued. " Railroads allowed for rapid movement and deployment of troops. Telegraph and telephone allowed quicker communications. They had submarines, torpedoes, and tanks, too."

"And flying machines," Sam said with a sickly grin, pointing at the primitive plane beside them.

"Well, the Germans had Zeppelins too, which they used to drop bombs," Al replied. "But it was cheaper for them to use hydrogen rather than helium so they burned rather spectacularly when the Allies shot 'em down. But, yeah, this was the first time airplanes were used in combat. Initially they were used for reconnaissance and photography missions."

"Let me guess," Sam said sarcastically. "It didn't take long before someone figured out you could mount guns in them."

"Most pilots carried pistols for self-defense in case they were shot down behind enemy lines. Then it occurred to them that they could also shoot at enemy pilots. But the real breakthrough came in 1915 when Anthony Fokker figured out how to synchronize machine guns with the propeller blades so you didn't shoot your own prop off. He was a Dutchman working for the Germans, but the Allies soon copied the mechanism so that advantage evaporated."

"How do you _know_ all this stuff?" Sam asked.

"You want more details?" Al answered with a question, and a grin. "I'll give you details! One enterprising fellow tried covering his prop blades with sheet metal; he shattered a lot of props, and bullets ricocheted back onto him but he was never hit. At first the pilots fired out the side of the cockpit, but with synchronized machine guns they could fire straight ahead; that lead to the tactic of wanting to be on their quarry's tail. These pilots here…" he waved his hand to indicate the aerodrome as a whole, "…they're the guys who invented the air tactics we still use today." He paused a moment. "I'm a Navy pilot, Sam. They teach you military history in flight school."

"Right. Sorry, I forgot. With all those technological advances you'd think one side would've won pretty quickly," Sam mused. "Why did the war drag on so long?"

"The generals didn't really know how to _use_ all the new stuff very well, or how to defend against it," Al replied. "They were used to relying on the cavalry, but horses weren't very effective against a hail of bullets from a machine gun in a trench. So the elite cavalry units were all but disbanded and a lot of the officers transferred to air service; von Richthofen started out as a captain in the cavalry."

"So we're back to the Red Baron again. Other than shooting him down, do you have any idea why I'm here?" Sam asked as if tired of repeating himself.

Al shook his head. "Ziggy's gonna need some time to check up on all the people you're likely to run across, and correlate that with the events of the war. It could be _any_thing."

"I don't suppose it's another war-time romance," Sam suggested hopefully. Though it might be tricky, romancing some young woman sounded a whole lot better than fighting a war.

"Hey, it could be to _keep_ some guy from bringing home a war-bride in a marriage that doesn't work out. I promise you I'll let you know just as soon as Ziggy comes up with something, Sam. Until then, you need to do John Beckett's job; you can start by fixing this airplane."

Sam turned to stare at the plane in the vague hope that he could see something clearly wrong. Although it seemed very primitive to him, there were still a lot of parts that had to work to make it fly; the engine would have hundreds of moving parts by itself. "Lt. Browne said something about the engine cutting out in flight." He turned to look at Al. "Do you have any idea what's wrong with it?"

"How should _I_ know?" Al shrugged. In turn he eyed the plane critically. "Apparently the engine runs fine on the ground; otherwise you wouldn't have been flying around trying to figure it out. These early planes weren't much more than glorified kites; the torque from the engine must put all kinds of stress on the airframe. I'd look into the electrical connections, if I were you."

Sam looked dismayed, but said, "Okay, thanks."

Al used the handlink to open the Imaging Chamber door. He stepped inside the rectangle of bright white light and said, "Sam, I _promise_ I'll let you know as soon as we have any idea why you're here. In the meantime, don't shoot any more German pilots down!" With that he tapped the 'close' button on the handlink and disappeared,

Sam stared at the spot his friend had just vacated. "Ha, ha, very funny, Al," he muttered. "I'll be happy if I just don't have to fly in that thing again."

He turned to the wooden workbench to see what tools he had to work with. There was the usual array of screwdrivers, wrenches, and hammers but there were also woodworking tools like planes, rasps, and sanding blocks. He supposed that made sense as so much of the airplane was made of wood. Presumably broken ribs or framework would be replaced with hand-made copies on the spot.

Sam also saw a heavy canvas apron hanging from a nail driven into one of the tent's support posts. He glanced down to realize he was wearing a uniform jacket of an unbelievably ugly color; not quite brown, not quite olive green. The pants matched, and both were made of wool. Now that he thought about it, he realized that the rigid stand-up collar rubbed his neck uncomfortably.

"I guess this guy got all dressed up in case he was shot down, so he'd look proper for the enemy." He peeled out of the jacket, rolled up the sleeves of the cotton shirt underneath, and donned the apron. "Al said to check the wiring," he reminded himself. "Sure wish there was a volt meter here!" He picked up a couple of tools and approached the engine.

An hour later Sam approached a small square wooden building, having been told he might find Lt. Browne there. He stepped inside to find several officers lounging around what appeared to be a common room; a group was playing cards at a beat-up table, while a couple of men were intently writing letters. Kerosene lamps hung from brackets on the walls, giving off smoke that mixed with that of cigarettes and pipes. A gramophone in the corner was playing a huge vinyl record; the music had a scratchy quality. _Probably 78 rpm,_ Sam thought. _Only one song on that big disc._

The lieutenant was holding his cards close to his chest, but the man had a good poker face and Sam couldn't tell if he were winning or bluffing. There was a large pile of cash, coins, and cigarettes next to his elbow. Apparently these men took the game seriously and he didn't want to interrupt. As far as he was concerned they had every right to enjoy themselves whenever they could, not knowing if they might be killed on their very next mission.

There was a full-length mirror standing in one corner so Sam wandered over to see what this Beckett fellow looked like. What he saw was a nice-looking young man with short brown hair and hazel eyes. The face was deeply tanned and the arms and shoulders had good musculature on an otherwise tall and thin frame. He tilted his head from side to side and decided he could see a little resemblance to his own face; a nose that would look too large if not set against a long face, and a slight cleft to the chin. Or maybe it was his Dad's face he was thinking of; after all these years of looking at a stranger's face in the mirror it was hard to remember what his own looked like.

Behind him he heard someone say, "I'm afraid you lose this time, Trevor." He turned around to see a blond man who couldn't have been more than 21 years old triumphantly place his cards on the table.

"About time, if you ask me," another pilot remarked. Trevor shrugged and smiled, as if losing were of no importance.

Now that the hand was over he focused his attention on Sam. "I do hope you're here to give me good news," he said.

"Yes, sir," Sam replied. "I thought you'd like to know as soon as possible."

"Well, out with it, man! What was wrong?" the lieutenant asked.

"It was the wire from the ignition switch to the magneto," Sam replied. "It was too short. It was fine when the plane was on solid ground, but the frame twists when you're flying causing it to stretch and pull, and I think the vibration of the engine caused it to lose contact sometimes."

"How ever did you figure that out?" the blond man asked.

"He's a clever farm boy, is our Mr. Beckett," one of the other players put in. "You have to be a Jack of all trades and Master of none to do everything that needs doing on a farm; if he can't fix it then it can't be fixed!"

"Well, I'm not _sure_ that was the problem, but I think it was," Sam replied. "The end of the wire looked a little frayed and it makes sense. The mag can't generate electricity if the wire doesn't make solid contact. I thought maybe you'd like to take it up and make sure."

Lt. Browne grimaced. "Can't, old man. Petrol is in short supply these days; but I should think we'll get word to go aloft again soon. That'll have to do, and you can be sure I'll let you know if it doesn't work!"

Sam responded with an uneasy half-smile. "I'm sure you will, Sir. I'd better get back then."

"No rest for the weary, eh Beckett? Carry on, then. And thanks for letting me know."

"Yes, Sir," Sam said, not sure how much fraternizing went on between enlisted men and officers. They began dealing another hand as he left the room; easier to think of cards than what might await them later in the day.

Sam walked across the aerodrome back toward the tent he'd been working in. It was a rather desolate place, full of busy men but with an air of having been hastily thrown together. The buildings were the kind that could be quickly built on the spot to serve a purpose, and that's exactly what they looked like. The whole place had been constructed in a large field and there were no trees to block the wind which constantly whipped at the open tent flaps.

As he approached 'his' tent he saw a crew pushing the R.E.8 back out to the flight line. It seemed odd to him that his repair job would be tested under fire – maybe literally. He reminded himself that this was a different era; that these men were figuring out new rules as they went. And he sincerely hoped he'd really fixed that plane.

A soldier ran up, calling his name and pointing off in the distance. "Cap'n says you're to see to that lorry," he said.

"Lorry?" Sam asked. "Oh, you mean _truck_."

"Yanks!" the soldier said with a grin. "It's quit on us, had to be towed back with a team of horses, it did."

Sam looked puzzled. "I thought I was an airplane mechanic."

"You're a _mechanic_, that's close enough. It's the baker's lorry over there," he said, and then walked away as if that was all he had to say.

_I s'pose that makes sense_, Sam thought. _There's no real specialization yet, so a mechanic would work on any kind of vehicle._ He spotted the truck in question by the name painted on the side, grateful that he remembered that _boulangerie_ meant bakery in French. Apparently they'd pressed local vehicles into service rather than bring in military trucks. The cab was an open box with C-shaped openings on each side instead of doors; the bed a simple wooden platform surrounded by low rails. What surprised him was that the wheels were wood-spoked with solid rubber tires.

The hood consisted of four panels with hinges in the center as well as the middle of both halves. When raised it looked rather like a capital 'M'. The engine was a tiny inline 4-cylinder; Sam began the process of figuring out what was

wrong with it.

Three hours later Sam was working with a team salvaging parts from a downed German plane when Al showed up.

"Waste not, want not," Al quoted sagely. He poked at the handlink's buttons and rose into the air so that he appeared to be sitting in the pilot's seat. "Always wanted to fly one of these old things," he said wistfully. "The wind in your face, coming out of the sun with guns blazing at the enemy…"

"Falling out of the sky and crashing," Sam finished.

"It could've been worse," one of the team insisted. "I heard we captured the Hun that flew this one; he's right out of the war but at least he wasn't killed."

Al was pretending to fly the plane, but spared a glance for Sam. "I just dropped in to let you know that we got the DNA results and it turns out that John Beckett is your Great Uncle, your Grandfather's youngest brother."

"That's good news," Sam responded.

"It's good news for _him_," the teammate agreed.

"Good news for _us_, too," another man said. "We can always use the spare parts."

"Better we're stripping one of _theirs_ than of one of ours," the first man commented.

"So what am I doing here?" Sam muttered in Al's direction.

-"Oh, we still don't know." Al was playing like he was firing the gun.

-"Well, the lorry's near full, you could haul that load back if you want," replied one of the workers at the same time.

"Is that all you've got for me?" Sam asked.

-"I thought you'd want to know," Al said, his feelings clearly injured.

-"You can start getting it sorted and we'll have the engine out soon and bring it to you."

Sam looked up at Al who stopped his play long enough to suggest, "Why don't you do that, Sam, and I can tell you all about Uncle John.

"Um, okay, sounds good," Sam told them both. He stepped through the opening in the truck cab, started the engine and drove off.

He pulled the truck up behind one of the tents where salvaged materials were piled and began unloading, adding items to the various piles of wood, metal, engine parts, and gun parts. Al showed up not long after he started.

"You done playing?" Sam asked with mock disapproval in his voice and a grin on his face.

"Gimme a break, Sam." Al replied. "This is the chance of a lifetime! There aren't very many of these old planes left, and the ones that _are_ are in a museum." His face grew thoughtful. "Hey, maybe I'll hitch a ride the next time the guys go up."

Sam's smile grew wider. He understood what this meant to his friend, but couldn't help teasing him nonetheless. "You wouldn't be able to feel the wind in your face."

The expression on Al's face changed from surprise at that realization to a frown as it dawned on him he'd been had. "Gee thanks, Sam. Okay, so I wouldn't get the full experience, but it's a chance I can't pass up."

Sam heaved a large section of broken wing onto the appropriate pile. "So what've you got on Great Uncle John?" he asked, pausing for breath after his exertion.

"He's a lot like you, Sam," Al began. "He's a smart guy, interested in all the latest technology. Of course in 1918 that means internal combustion engines, advances in weaponry, and electronics. He's a true mechanic; he can see how all the pieces work together so he can solve the problem instead of just changing out a part."

"I can see how that would make him invaluable to the war effort," Sam said as he continued to toss bits of broken junk on the piles. "But why did he enlist? Didn't you tell me he's older than these soldiers? One of the pilots mentioned he was a farmer."

"He _is_, or was," Al agreed. "But he's the youngest son and knows he'll never inherit the farm, and he doesn't want to see it broken up into little bitty farms for each of the brothers, either. _He's_ the one who insisted they invest in motorized equipment, so they could run it more efficiently; he taught himself how engines worked so he could keep the machines running."

"So what's the problem?" Sam asked. "Obviously the family appreciates all his hard work; even if he'll never own the land they'd want him to stay there."

"Yeah, he could stay there all his life and the family would take care of him. It's _your_ family, Sam, you know they'd treat him right. The problem is that he lost his wife last year to the influenza epidemic and he's not sure he _wants_ to stay where those memories are."

Sam winced. "That must've been horrible for him, and I can understand that he might want to move on. But surely there were better ways than to enlist in the military."

Al gave him a guarded look, in case that was a slur against his chosen profession.

"I just meant that going off to war is dangerous," Sam added.

"You're right about that!" Al said. "But this camp is pretty safe, and John lives through the war and ends up going back home to the farm after all. He enlisted out of patriotism, Sam. When Woodrow Wilson declared war last year a lot of young men joined up. They wanted to fight for their country, and besides, it was a chance to see some other part of the world."

"So John was dealing with grief and feeling restless, and this seemed like the perfect solution. That probably means I'm not here to put something right in _his_ life."

"Not that we can tell," Al said. "I'm sorry, Sam. There's so many things going on here, and there's not a whole heck of a lot of data on a lot of these soldiers. It's just gonna take some time for Ziggy to come up with something."

They heard the cough of an engine from the flight line. Al disappeared for a moment and then popped right back. "Sam! You should watch this, they're going up!"


	3. Chapter 3

Chapter 3

Al vanished and Sam trotted around to the front of the tent, curious to watch the planes take off, especially since he wasn't _in_ one of them. He saw Al reappear in a plane waiting its turn to go. 'In' was a misnomer; Al had positioned himself on top of the cowling, his legs straddling the twin machine guns mounted there. He waved jauntily at Sam.

Sam noticed that these were a different kind of plane; still two wings, but only one seat. The guns were faired in with sheet metal, creating a humped look. _Are those the famous Sopwith Camels I've heard about?_ Sam wondered. There were five planes in line, and two pilots were just climbing into their cockpits. The last pilot was clearly urinating by the tail of his plane. Sam wasn't shocked; he'd grown up on a farm where you often answered nature's call wherever you happened to be. These men would be in those planes for a long time and a full bladder would be extremely uncomfortable during the bumpy flight so it made sense to empty it right before taking off.

The pilot of the plane Al was hitching a ride in was starting his engine. "Ready!" he called to a crewman on the ground.

"Switch off, Sir?" the crewman asked.

"Switch off!" the pilot replied.

The crewman turned the propeller a few times and shouted, "Contact, Sir."

"Contact!" the pilot replied, and Sam could see his hand move to turn on the ignition switch.

The crewman gave the prop a hard yank downward and then quickly stepped back as the engine caught and the prop began to spin. The remaining pilots were settling their goggles into place and tugging on their gloves before starting their engines. A 'Harry Tate' had been pushed into place at the back of the line; Sam saw Trevor Browne and another man dashing toward it at a run.

The first plane revved its engine, bounced down the mown strip, and lurched uncertainly into the air. The planes were at their heaviest now, their tanks full of gas and boxes of ammo belts placed to feed the guns. It began a wide circle around the field awaiting the others, which soon joined it. The R.E.8 took off last, waggling its wings rather wildly as it took up position. As it passed over Sam's spot it tilted sideways so Lt. Browne could give him a thumb's up that his repair seemed to be working. Sam hoped it held, and that all seven men would return safely.

It was late in the afternoon, and Sam was rattling down a rutted dirt road in car that was little more than a horseless carriage on his way to some place called Corbie Hill. Word had come in through the field telephones that the 3rd Australian Division had a problem with one of their big anti-aircraft guns. Since it couldn't come to him, he'd hitched a ride with a soldier who'd been headed in that general direction and who'd agreed to drop him off.

The driver's name was Brian and he was, like all the other men here, a young man; yet the lines around his mouth and eyes belied that image. This was a man who'd seen the horrors of war first-hand, and would never be the same. He was polite to Sam but spoke little, leaving Sam to his own thoughts; which were currently running along the line of wondering how many kinds of machines he would be called on to repair – and how close to the action this gun emplacement was located. He'd seen a few craters in the fields they'd passed, but he could see no planes anywhere in the sky so hopefully he was safe from being bombed. He didn't think either side had guns sophisticated enough to lob shells this far across the lines. Still, it was a little unnerving.

Brian stopped the car at a crossroads. "I'm afraid you walk from here, John." He pointed to his left. "Just keep going up that road until you see the guns, you can't miss it. It's a mile, maybe a mile and a half. Have you dealt with the Aussies before?"

"Uh, no, I haven't," Sam replied, unsure if it were true for John.

Brian smiled, the first time since Sam had met him. "They're good men but a bit impulsive, if you know what I mean. Their accent's a bit thick, too – but then I should imagine you think _I_ have an accent as well!"

Sam smiled back. "And you'd say I talk like a Yank."

"Well now, you can't help it then, can you?" Brian teased. "Good luck to you, and take care of yourself."

They shook hands. "And to you," Sam told him.

Sam grabbed his toolbox and hopped out of the car, waving as Brian drove away. He started off down the road, trying to keep the heavy box from banging into his leg with every step. He reflected that this was indeed a different world, where military personnel had to make their own way to their assignment and no one thought it the least bit odd to walk over a mile to get there. He wasn't sure how he would get back to the aerodrome either; that little detail hadn't been discussed. _One thing at a time_, he told himself. The weather was good and the air was incredibly fresh, at least to someone used to twenty-first century pollution.

Brian had been right, he saw the gun emplacement about 20 minutes later. A motorbike was putt-putting down the road toward him. Its engine made a curious sound, unlike the syncopated thump of the Harley Davidson he'd ridden on a previous Leap. The machine pulled up in front of him, the rider dropping a booted foot to the ground to steady himself. _No wonder it sounded funny,_ Sam thought. _It's only got one cylinder._

"G'day, Mate!" the rider said cheerfully. He wore a long belted jacket with a great many pockets and a wide-brimmed hat; the left side of the brim was snapped to the crown, giving it a jaunty air. "You'd be the mechanic from Bertangles. I'm Reggie Baker. Hop aboard and I'll give you a lift. Want you all nice and rested before you get to work!"

"John Beckett," Sam said, shaking hands. He eyed the bike critically, wondering how he'd manage the toolbox. There would barely be enough room for two men, though thankfully Reggie was a tall, slender man.

"Just put the box on your lap," Reggie said. "I promise I won't take the corners too fast." The twinkle in his eyes seemed to belie that statement.

Reggie turned the motorbike around in the road and Sam climbed on behind him, the box wedged between the two of them. If anything the two-wheeled ride was even bumpier than the car had been, but they made it up the hill to the big guns without mishap. At the last minute however Reggie threw the bike into a tight turn and the toolbox slid off Sam's lap, hitting the ground beside the gun.

"Just saved you the trouble of setting that big box down," Reggie said with a grin. "Delivered it right to the job for you, I did."

Sam wasn't sure if this were Reggie's idea of a joke, or a hazing to test his mettle. "Good thing it didn't land on your foot," he replied in a bland tone.

Reggie laughed uproariously as they both dismounted the motorbike. "You'll do, Mate, you'll do. Now the question is, can you fix the peashooter here? We've got Huns to shoot at, and we can't do our job proper-like without it."

"I've, uh, never seen one of these up close," Sam replied as he looked over the huge and deadly machine.

"And you should be thankful for that!" said a man who'd just walked up. He was short and barrel-chested, with dark hair. He offered his hand. "Billy Wright's the name."

Sam shook hands and introduced himself. "What seems to be the problem?"

"It's this piece here," Billy said, pointing to a thick metal brace that had broken in two. "There's another one just like it see, on the other side. When this big baby fires it kicks worse than a wallaby! These straps keep the base of the gun on track so it slides backward with the recoil."

"Trust me, Sam. You wouldn't want to fire this thing without being able to control the recoil." Al had just popped in. "That'd be dangerous."

"No kidding," Sam muttered. At the confused looks of the Aussies he continued. "I can see how dangerous that would be." He stepped up onto the toolbox to get a closer look. The top of the thick piece of iron was bolted solidly to the gun-base, while the bottom was attached to a bar which ran along the length of a groove. Apparently the enormous stress of recoil had caused the piece to crack in the middle. The lower half hung down on its bolt so Sam raised it back into place. "It just needs to be welded back together."

"No, no, Sam!" Al put it hurriedly, waving his hands in excitement. "On a _normal_ Leap you'd find pretty much the same level of technology you're used to, give or take. But remember when you are, Sam – they didn't have arc welders in 1918!"

"Welded? Is that what you Yanks call smith work?" Reggie asked.

Sam jumped down and began rummaging through the toolbox, partly to cover his error. "Smith work?" he asked, glancing at Al.

"Blacksmithing," Al supplied. "You're gonna have to either hammer out a replacement or try to put that one back together. Making a new one would be better; a repair might not hold very long."

"Ah, well, sort of," Sam replied as he grabbed a large wrench. "It'd be easier to try to fix this one, but I'm not sure." He closed the lid and stood on the box once more to begin removing the bolt.

"Not sure of _what_?" Billy asked.

"You don't exactly have unlimited supplies," Al told him. "A patch would take less metal, which is in short supply around here."

"A repair might not last too long," Sam repeated. "But it would take less iron and I'm not sure we have enough to make a new part."

Reggie nudged Billy in the ribs. "We need to take him to the Cap'n."

"Right we do," Billy replied. "Cap'n can likely get us what we need. He knows the locals roundabout, says he knows a Sheila what can take care of us soldiers."

"Ha! I'll just _bet_ she can," Al smirked.

"How can a girl help?" Sam asked, turning his head to frown in Al's direction.

"The Cap'n, he seems to think right highly of her," Reggie said a bit cryptically. He began pushing the motorbike closer to the gun. "Let's get this bit o' tin unbolted, then I'll take you over to HQ and see what he thinks."

Having maneuvered the bike into position he jumped up to stand on its seat. The bike wobbled a little, but Reggie moved with it until it settled into place, apparently unconcerned at the possibility of falling. Billy dug into one of his uniform pockets to find a wrench. He handed it to Reggie, then stood back to watch.

Even with two of them working on the brace it took awhile before they got it unbolted. The over-sized bolts were tight, their threads probably filled with fine dust and gunpowder making them that much harder to remove. Sam's wrench slipped off the nut, causing him to bark his knuckles.

"Ooh, sorry, Sam," Al commiserated. "That looks like it hurt."

As Sam sucked on a knuckle he muttered, "I'd really like to get some WD-40. That'd make this job easier."

"I know, Buddy," Al responded. "If you had some machine-oil it might help, but they didn't have aerosol cans yet. I wish they'd _never_ invented them, they just spray accelerant into the atmosphere and foul up the ozone." Worked up now, he began pacing and continued to mutter about environmental issues. Sam ignored him.

Billy hadn't quite caught Sam's words but made an assumption. He glanced at the angle of the sun and said, "Had a long day, have you, Mate? I reckon the Cap'n will let you get your 40 winks at HQ. With any luck you'll get there before dark."

"In time for tucker," added Reggie hopefully. "Which is always better at HQ. Be nice to get a good meal for a change."

Just then the upper bolt came free and Reggie's half of the brace fell onto the body of the gun with a loud clang. "Blimey! That could've hurt if it'd hit my foot!" He jumped off the bike's seat and retrieved the piece, absent-mindedly tossing it up into the air repeatedly as he gauged Sam's progress. Al looked up from his rant.

Sam transferred the wrench to his left hand so he could shake out the muscles of his right arm. "That sucker's on there _tight_!"

"Why don't you take a little rest, Sam?" Al suggested.

"I need to get this _done_!" Sam replied a bit testily. "It's time we got out of here."

"Chill out, Sam," Al responded.

"We've got time yet, no need to rush," Billy told him.

Al looked critically at Sam. "Are you okay?"

Sam made a wry face. "I'm not exactly used to being on the front lines so maybe I'm a little nervous; but I've got a bad feeling about this."

Al whipped the handlink out of his pocket and began pushing buttons.

Billy shrugged. "You get used to it," he said. "Why don't you let me have a go at it."

"Sure, thanks," Sam said. He and Billy traded places on the makeshift step-stool and Billy began working at the recalcitrant bolt.

"Sam, don't panic," Al began.

Sam's face showed sudden alarm at the words.

"But you _do_ need to get outta here," Al continued. "There's a flight of German planes headed this way, and Ziggy says they'll be shooting at these soldiers."

Sam scanned the sky but there were no planes to be seen. Nevertheless he trusted Al's information. Billy and Reggie were doubtless used to living under combat conditions, but that was an experience he wasn't eager to go through again. Ziggy might well be able to tell him that certain men died here today, but she wouldn't know exactly where they'd stood. The records wouldn't be that precise in this – or any – war.

The problem was that his new friends weren't worried, nor were they likely to believe he had inside information. Sam decided his best bet was to continue to play the part of the non-combatant who was suddenly paranoid. He made a big show of shading his eyes while looking off into the distance.

"What's that over there?" he asked, pointing in the direction of the trenches.

Billy glanced at the patch of sky Sam pointed to. "Looks like a flock of birds heading to roost for the evening." He returned to his work.

Sam jumped up on the base of the gun and pulled himself atop it. "Are you sure?" he asked. He didn't have to act to inject fear into his voice.

Reggie swarmed up the side of the gun to look for himself. "You might want to hurry it up a bit, Billy," he said with studied calm. "I think John might be right; those just might be German birds."

"They're too far away to tell; could be our blokes coming home," Billy replied. Nevertheless he applied the wrench with renewed vigor.

"They _are_ planes," Sam said tensely. "I can see their wings now."

"Sam, you should get down offa there and find a safe place," Al cautioned. "At the very least you need to find a helmet somewhere. And get away from that gun because it's a _target_!"

"I need to see the markings," Sam said.

"No you don't, Mate," Reggie said. "You can tell from the shape – and I think you're right, they're not friendly."

Sam sat on the edge of the gun body and reached down toward the wrench. "Maybe if we both pull it'll help."

The strategy worked and at long last the bolt came free. The planes were close enough now that they could clearly hear the sound of their engines. Sam and Billy jumped down and the three men ran away from the useless gun, Al strolling along behind.

But there was no such thing as a safe place in the middle of the gun emplacement. Soldiers were scurrying toward their assigned posts and in moments were tracking the incoming planes, ready to fire if they got the chance. Reggie ducked into a wooden shack long enough to grab three helmets. Sam put his on gratefully. Al sauntered up behind Sam and leaned closer to have a better look; he stuck his finger through a hole in the helmet's rim and shook his head but didn't say a word to Sam.

"What can I do to help?" Sam asked.

"Let's see where the Huns are headed," Billy said. "They might well be going to shoot up some other place, and not come within reach of our guns."

Al had investigated the shack and now ran back out through the rickety wall. "Sam, this place is full of ammunition; if it gets hit it'll take half the hill with it!" He turned this way and that, hurriedly looking for a better place for Sam to ride out the coming attack. Finally he pointed to a ditch a few yards away. "Jump down in that ditch over there, Sam. Put your head down and try to look like you're not worth shooting."

"But as long as I'm here I feel like I should do something to help these guys," Sam said a bit anxiously.

"You can help 'em best by _not_ getting killed so you can fix their gun _tomorrow_," Al protested.

At the same time Billy assured him, "If they _do_ come our way, you can help us carry ammo boxes out to the other lads."

They heard a shout from one of the gunners; all three looked up at the sky to see that the enemy planes were much closer now, and coming within range of their weapons. One of the guns fired; a deafening sound even though it was 50 feet away. Sam watched in awe as the gun recoiled; the entire body of the machine shuddering with the force. He could see how critical it was to control that power, and thus how important his current job was.

The rest of the guns opened fire and he couldn't hear himself think for the noise. Reggie pressed a pistol into his hand and he stuck it through the belt on his uniform. It didn't make him feel any safer, but he'd long since learned that having a weapon wasn't a bad idea. The big guns couldn't fire straight up, so if an enemy plane managed to make it through the barrage they'd have to try to shoot it down with handguns.

Sam watched as the planes flew by, trying to dodge the shells. Billy tapped his shoulder and pointed behind them; friendly forces were flying to meet the Germans. They began a deadly dance in the sky, weaving and diving to get into position to fire on the enemy while trying to ensure that another enemy didn't have his sights set on them at the same time. It would've been a beautiful display if it weren't so dangerous.

The guns fired sporadically now, waiting to make sure they weren't likely to hit their own planes. Reggie motioned Sam over to the door of the shack, pointing to a stack of wooden ammo boxes. They each grabbed one of the rope handles and began carrying it out. Sam could see Al frantically waving and shaking his head, but he ignored his friend. Al began fiddling with the handlink as they carried the heavy box to one of the guns. They helped the crew get the belt of ammo fed into the gun and took the empty box with them, throwing it in a pile outside the shack.

Al walked closer to Sam; so close in fact that his holographic body seemed to merge with Sam's. He was careful to hold the handlink up toward the dogfight. "I've got Ziggy trying to keep track of things up there," he shouted in Sam's ear. "Hopefully she'll be able to give us a couple seconds' warning if bullets are likely to be coming this way. So if I point some direction, you run that way. Don't argue with me on this, Sam; just _run_, okay?"

Sam nodded. "I promise, Al. And thanks, I really appreciate you looking out for me."

"You just keep an eye on me and move when I tell you to," Al ordered gruffly. He was in full military mode, determined to keep his charge alive; but this was made more difficult by the fact that Sam was often more focused on helping someone else and didn't always follow his orders. Al couldn't afford to be sentimental at the moment; he'd have his hands full keeping track of everything to keep Sam safe.

Sam turned to see Billy holding several metal canteens by their straps. He pushed them in Sam's direction while pointing at one of the guns with his other hand. Sam grabbed them and ran, handed them to the gunner and remembering to glance at Al as he started back. Reggie and Billy were delivering another box of ammo. The next half hour was spent running supplies and watching the dogfight.

Nor did he forget to look in Al's direction frequently. Al had stationed himself at the top of the hill so that he would be easily visible from wherever Sam might happen to be. He couldn't quite get over the feeling that Al was in danger up there, though he knew that no bullets could hurt the hologram.

One of the big guns found a target; Sam watched as two large objects plummeted to the ground while the rest of the pieces floated lazily down like autumn leaves. _Those must be the engine and the pilot's body,_ he thought. _Everything else is wood or fabric, caught up in the turbulence of the explosion and not heavy enough to fall very fast._ He knew that soldiers nearer the site would go check on the pilot; they'd tend to his wounds or bury him as needed.

Caught up in the deadly spectacle he suddenly realized a plane had broken off from the pack and was heading straight for the hill. He whipped his head around to see Al frantically waving to get his attention; seeing that he had it, Al began pointing toward the ditch, pumping his arm to indicate urgency. Al's mouth was open, doubtless screaming "Run, Sam!" at the top of his lungs.

Sam ran. He veered slightly from the straight path to grab Reggie and Billy by the arms and drag them along with him. They looked a little confused, but combat had taught them not to ask questions if someone seemed to think they might be in danger. The three of them jumped into the ditch feet first and immediately hunkered down and huddled close to its earthen wall. A second later bullets stitched a line across the ground mere yards from where they'd been standing.

Sam dared to look up as the plane passed overhead and watched as the bullets threw up gouts of earth as they traced a path straight toward Al at the top of the hill. No matter that he knew they wouldn't hurt his friend, he couldn't help but wince as he watched them appear to pass through his body. Al put his hands on his hips and looked up at the retreating plane. A sudden near-silence had descended on the emplacement as the soldiers contemplated the close call. Sam could clearly hear Al yell, "Ha, ha, you _missed_ me!"

The enemy plane flew off in a wide circle to avoid the anti-aircraft guns on his way to meet up with his squadron. The dogfight appeared to be over, though Sam hadn't seen any decisive action to cause that. Maybe he'd missed it, or maybe it was the fact that the sun would set soon and the pilots on both sides wanted to be safely home before dark. These planes didn't have headlights.

"Blimey!" Reggie exclaimed as they climbed out of the ditch and dusted themselves off. "That was too close by half."

"We're in your debt, John," Billy said sincerely. "If you hadn't pushed us into that ditch we'd be goners for sure."

"I, uh, just thought that plane was a little too close for comfort," Sam told them.

"No need to be modest, Mate," Reggie said. "I reckon you've saved our lives today."

"Oh, I don't know," Sam said uneasily. "I mean, I couldn't be sure, he might have swerved and hit us anyway."

Al popped in next to the group. "Yeah, don't be so modest, Sam. Ziggy says you _did_ save their lives – _both_ of them."

"I did?" Sam asked, speaking to Al. "Both of them?"

"Right," said Billy. "You couldn't choose between us, so you pushed us both into that ditch. First pint's on _us_ tonight, John!"

"Was that why I was here?" Sam asked, still speaking to Al. Perhaps it was the let-down after the adrenaline rush; he seemed to have momentarily forgotten the Aussie's were standing there. "Then I can Leap out of here?"

Al consulted the handlink, but Sam didn't feel the familiar sensation.

"We leaped out of the ditch," Billy said. "But you do need to go to HQ so you can see about fixing our gun. Next time around we'd like to be shooting _back_."

"No, sorry, Sam," Al said, shaking his head. "Reggie and Billy survive the war and go home to Australia in another few months. But it doesn't look like saving them was your mission. Though Ziggy still doesn't know what it might be."

"_Damn!_" Reggie yelled. "The bloody Huns shot my _bike_!"

Sam looked over to the inoperative gun and saw soldiers shoveling dirt onto the burning remains of the motorbike. He was beginning to feel a sense of relief at having escaped death unscathed, and remembered Reggie's outrageous sense of humor. "Well then you'll just have to find some _other_ way to get me to HQ; I only saved your sorry butt so you'd still be here to _use_ that gun after I get it fixed." He gave them a big grin to show it was all in good fun.

Reggie grinned back and said, "Let's see if we can borrow the truck." He started off toward the back side of the hill with Sam and Billy following.

"Arse," Billy muttered as they walked. "Bloody Yank, it's 'saved your sorry _arse'_." But he was grinning, too.


	4. Chapter 4

Chapter 4

The sun was low on the horizon by the time they arrived at HQ, bathing the scene with ruddy light. Reggie turned off the main road and Sam was sure this was another joke. He'd expected another outcrop of tents and tin huts, but the view before him looked more like a picture postcard. The truck passed through a gate in a wrought iron fence and headed down a tree-lined lane. Over the years limbs had been cut back to allow vehicles passage, leaving the crowns grown together at the top. It felt like they were driving through a tunnel.

At the end of the lane Sam could see a huge house built of stone. It was three stories high, and the warm light sparkled off of its many windows. Neatly manicured lawns and flowerbeds surrounded the house. _Correction_, Sam thought as they drew nearer. _It looks like someone has driven heavy trucks across the lawn, and the shrubbery needs a good trim._

"Reggie, I thought you said we were going to HQ," Sam said. He watched Reggie's face for signs of merriment.

"And so we are, Mate," Reggie replied seriously. He swung his head to regard Sam, who was crammed in the small seat with Billy. "You don't think officers would camp like the rest of us, do you?"

"Well, no, not really," Sam said. "But this is someone's _home_."

"Right you are," Billy agreed cheerfully. "And they've graciously allowed us to use it as headquarters."

"More like we commandeered it," Reggie put in. "They've got plenty of money, so they're not hurting. They've gone off to their home in Paris and we've got the run of the chateau."

"Looks like you haven't kept up the landscape," Sam said dryly.

"If the Huns get through the lines and overrun Paris it won't matter what happens to this place," Reggie commented.

"Good point," Sam replied.

They parked the truck and walked to the front door where they stated their business to the guard. He allowed them to enter, saying that the Captain was there. Sam stopped just inside the doorway to stare. The entryway was huge, with a beautiful chandelier hanging from the high arched ceiling. It wasn't lit; he could only catch glimmers of its many crystals from a small electric lamp placed on a table by the door. _They're saving money where they can,_ Sam thought.

But the beauty was marred by muddy footprints on the marble floor and an untidy pile of coats, boots and weapons occupying one corner. He could hear sounds of revelry coming from deeper inside the chateau; something made of glass shattered and men laughed raucously.

Billy moved past him, then turned at the doorway. "C'mon then, Mate," he urged. "The party's this way."

Sam hurried to follow so he wouldn't get lost in the big house. Clearly Billy and Reggie had been there before and knew where they were going, although he probably could've simply followed the noise. The three of them entered a dining room seemingly large enough to seat the entire army. It was full of men, most of them obviously drunk. A few were still eating their dinner, some were playing cards, and the rest were watching two men engaged in a boxing match which was the source of the noise.

"I see the Cap'n over there," Reggie said, pointing. He headed that direction while Billy joined the group egging on the fighters. Sam watched as Billy pulled money from his wallet and handed it to one of the on-lookers; the man already had a fistful of cash. One of the combatants threw a punch and the other stepped nimbly out of his way; the first man's momentum carried him through the crowd and he slammed into the wall and sank down against it. The impact knocked loose a heavy gilt-framed painting which landed on his head; the canvas pulled loose from the frame which hung around his neck like some bizarre necklace.

Sam dashed across the room to help, but before he could get there someone removed the damaged painting, tossing it across the room, and several men pulled the dazed boxer to his feet.

"Get back in there, you useless sod," one of them yelled, shoving him back toward the center of the rough circle.

"If I lose my five quid I'll take it out on _you_," someone else threatened.

The fight continued; it looked like a grudge match, both men clearly angry about something. _Probably some silly insult,_ Sam thought. But perhaps he should stay and help patch them up when it was over; they looked like they'd need it.

Reggie tapped him on the shoulder to get his attention. "Cap'n wants to talk to you," he shouted.

"Let's go somewhere where we can _hear_," Sam suggested, turning away from the fight and following Reggie.

The captain was waiting for them near a doorway; a small man with a neat mustache. They walked down a hallway to a smaller room; Sam saw other damage to the house as they went, including not a few bullet holes in the woodwork.

Reggie shut the door, which cut down the clamor considerably. Sam introduced himself to the captain.

"Captain George Downey," the officer said as they shook hands. Though his uniform was rumpled and Sam could see a blob of gravy on the shirt, the man's manner had changed to one of alertness and command. "What can I do for you?"

Sam explained the situation and his need for scrap iron to make repairs. "Reggie seemed to think you might know someone who can get it for me, " he ended.

"That'd be the Fortiers," George said. "If anyone can find something useful, it'd be them. How much do you need?"

Sam pulled the two broken pieces from his pocket and handed them to him. "I'd like to have enough to make a new piece, but if not I can try patching this one."

George examined them and gave them back. "I'll take you there in the morning, at first light. Their farm's not far from here and there's a forge on the chateau property. We need to get that gun back in action, and I appreciate your efforts. Have you eaten?"

Reggie perked up at the mention of food.

"No, Sir, we haven't," Sam replied. "I hate to be a bother, but is there someplace here where I could sleep tonight?"

"I'm afraid you'll have to take whatever's left, but I'll send an orderly to the kitchen and I'm sure he can find you a cot," the captain replied. He eyed Reggie doubtfully. "You and your mate will have to be off to Corbie Hill in the morning but I reckon you could use a night in decent accommodations."

They heard a loud roar from the direction of the dining room.

"Fight must be over," Reggie commented. From the look on his face he was disappointed he'd missed it.

"Um, is it always so noisy here?" Sam asked.

"The lads are just havin' a little fun," Reggie said.

"You haven't been here long, have you?" George asked Sam. He continued without waiting for an answer. "The men here are pilots; they risk their lives every day. Every morning when they wake up they don't know if they'll make it back here that night. They don't want to think about what tomorrow may hold, and they'll do almost anything to put it out of their minds. The problem is that there isn't much they _can_ do; they drink and then they fight. Then, if they're lucky, they do it all over again the next day."

"I hadn't thought of it that way," Sam said thoughtfully. "The stress must be horrible."

George shook his head sadly. "The average lifespan of a pilot is three weeks."

"Three _weeks_?" Sam exclaimed. "And they keep volunteering?"

"They're bloody heroes," the captain said. "We'll need every one of them and then some to win this war. Just like we need men like yourself Mr. Beckett; your job is neither as dangerous nor as glamorous, but every bit as important. And of course our brave gunners, too," he said with a nod to Reggie.

The Fortier farm looked tranquil in the early morning light. Perhaps it was the familiar sound of cattle lowing that made Sam feel instantly at home. The house was built from thick timbers and looked like it'd been there for 100 years; it probably had. A woman answered the captain's knock and greeted him in broken English; she obviously knew him and invited them in with a hand gesture.

The house was small, but charming in a very rural way. There wasn't a lot of furniture, and what was there was crude but serviceable; it too looked like it had been hand-built a long time ago. The room was dark, lit only by a single candle on the table; but lengths of cheery fabric at the windows and doorways gave it a homey, comfortable feel.

Before he stopped to think about it Sam spoke to her in fluent French. Her name was Yvonne, and her husband Etienne was out taking care of the animals before breakfast. Two young children, Denis and Madeleine, ran into the room, having heard voices. They seemed entranced with an American who actually spoke more than three words of their language.

George waited for the chatter to end before remarking, "You're full of surprises, Mr. Beckett. How do you come to speak French?"

"Oh, ah, well…my Grandmother was French," Sam stammered out the lie.

"Your Grandmother was as American as apple pie!" Al said as he stepped through the bright rectangle of the Imaging Chamber door. This morning he was wearing an orange silk shirt over gray slacks, with leopard-print suspenders. "But then he doesn't know that, and it's better than telling him you speak seven languages. He'd never believe that."

"Good!" George replied. "_You_ can explain what you want then." He walked over to warm his hands at the wood-burning stove in the corner.

Yvonne returned to her work as she listened to Sam's explanation. Al puffed on his cigar as he watched her graceful movements. "I can't understand a word she's saying, but I bet a pretty woman like that speaks the universal language."

Sam flashed an irritated look at Al but spoke to George. "She says I need to talk to her husband." He put a slight emphasis on the word for Al's benefit. "Denis will show me the way and you can stay here."

Al looked offended. "How was I supposed to know she was married?" He pulled the handlink from his pocket and began punching its buttons.

Madeleine looked in Al's direction, head cocked to the side as if she'd seen or heard something.

"Suits me, it's warm in here," George said.

"Can she _see_ me?" Al asked in a slightly panicked tone. He whacked the handlink with the heel of his other hand, muttering, "No, how old are the _kids_? Oh, good, she's six, she shouldn't be able to see me. Maybe she just picked up on you looking at me, that's all. And he's eight, so he's too old." He let the handlink droop and turned his attention to Sam. I'll wait here for you Sam, that way the farm animals won't see me either and cause any problems for you."

"Okay, I'll be back in a few minutes," Sam told them both.

Denis bounced along beside Sam as they walked across the farm in the early morning light. He proudly pointed out the fields and sheds, and kept up a running chatter about the various crops and animals and work that had to be done. Sam enjoyed the walk and was startled to find that aside from the lack of mechanized equipment this farm was run very much like his father's had been.

It occurred to him that he'd thought this family was poor because they didn't have any "modern" technological tools like electricity or trucks but they were rich in the things that counted. They were self-sufficient, producing enough crops to feed themselves as well as buy what few things they couldn't make. Their household was full of love and the pride of work well done; and they were clearly willing to do what they could to help the soldiers in protecting their lives and land.

Denis stuck his head inside the barn, then waved Sam forward. "Papa's in here," he said.

Monsieur Fortier was busy milking the cows, a task that immediately made Sam feel nostalgic. Denis excitedly explained Sam's mission to his father. Etienne looked over his shoulder at Sam and said, "Milk, then talk."

Sam understood the importance of getting the work done, so he grabbed a second pail. "I'd be glad to help you if you'd like, and we can talk while we work."

Etienne cocked an eyebrow at Sam, apparently surprised at both his offer and his ability to speak French, but told him which cow was next to be milked. Sam settled into the work and was well aware that Etienne watched him closely for a few minutes until he was sure Sam knew what he was doing. Denis was sent back to the house and the two men made conversation as they worked. They discussed farming and families and the weather, but the subject of war didn't come up and Sam didn't press the issue. He pointed out a barn cat who'd crept closer to beg some fresh milk, and laughed when Etienne deftly squirted some into the cat's open mouth. Some things never changed.

When they were finished Sam said, "I'll take the milk back to the house, and then help with the rest of the chores." Though he knew it was important to get the iron so he could repair the gun, he'd already seen too much of this war and found it relaxing to spend time on this farm.

Etienne smiled. "You have come at a good time. This was my last task, and now we go eat." He grew more serious. "Then we will discuss what you need, and I will see if we can help."

They left the barn, each carrying heavy pails of milk. As they neared the chicken coop the hens suddenly began squawking and flapping their wings. Sam looked up to see that Al had materialized just outside the coop.

"Sam, I'm afraid I've got some bad news," Al said.

"What is it?" Sam asked, trying not to sound too worried.

Etienne set his pail on the ground and ran for the pen. "It could be a snake come to steal the eggs," he called over his shoulder. He unlatched the gate and began an inspection, which only agitated the hens further.

Al moved nearer to Sam, taking advantage of the distraction so they could talk. "I asked Ziggy to check up on this family just in case, you know."

Sam motioned for him to continue. "And? Does something happen to them?"

Al winced at having to bear bad news. "On Sunday a German plane flies over and drops a bomb on the house."

"Why?" Sam asked incredulously. "They're no threat to the Germans."

"Why?" Al echoed. "Ah, we don't know that. It's a war, Sam; things happen in war. It might've even been an accident, who knows? Maybe the pilot was lost and confused or maybe he hit the release by mistake. But it hits at dinnertime, the whole family's in the house. They're all killed, Sam."

"I can't let that happen," Sam said with determination. Then a thought struck him. "Is that why I'm here? To save them?"

"I doubt it," Al replied. "They're just farmers, they couldn't affect the outcome of the war. But it doesn't matter if that's your mission or not; I knew you'd want to know. I thought maybe if you knew ahead of time you might be able to think of something." The expression on his face said he didn't have any ideas.

"Of course I want to save them!" Sam replied vehemently. "I don't care if they don't have anything to do with the war; just because I Leaped into the middle of a war it doesn't mean I'm here to affect its outcome." He raised an eyebrow in a skeptical look. "You're not still thinking about the Red Baron, are you?"

"No. Yes! I don't know, Sam," Al shrugged in confusion. "His death would be a tremendous boost to Allied morale, but I'll admit I don't see how you could pull it off."

Sam shook his head in resignation. "I don't see how I can stop this house from being bombed, either. This is tough, Al. There's so many people here, and I can't save every one of them."

"I know, Sam," Al commiserated. "Even with Ziggy's capacity it's impossible for her to know which one – or ones – will make some difference in the future. And _way_ too many people have already died in this war. None of them should've had to die."

Sam sighed loudly. "I guess I'll just have to take any chance to help someone, and hope I Leap out of here soon."

Etienne had quieted the chickens and returned. "I didn't see a snake; I don't know what upset them. Come on, let's go eat. Yvonne loves feeding the soldiers; she thinks a home-cooked meal does wonders for their morale. It's one way she can help."

"You do that, Sam, and I'll keep checking on the soldiers at the aerodrome. Ooh, and the Australians too; they could still be important."

"Sounds good," Sam said.

Al called up the door and vanished through it, as Sam and Etienne headed for the house. Yvonne had breakfast ready when they arrived; eggs and fresh-baked bread and cheese, washed down with the milk they'd brought. It wasn't exactly like the breakfasts that Sam's mother had made, but close enough to make him feel nostalgic.

After breakfast Etienne asked Sam about the iron he needed. Sam pulled the broken pieces from his pocket and handed them to Etienne. "I need enough to forge a new one of these, if possible. At least enough to put this one back together. I know iron is scarce these days."

Etienne studied the pieces, estimating their weight and obviously thinking about where he might find enough metal. Yvonne took them in turn to make her own assessment. Although Sam firmly believed that women were capable of doing nearly anything that a man could do he found himself surprised that this French farmwife would take an interest in what this era considered man's work. It didn't surprise him that Denis and Madeleine crowded around to get a look; kids were always curious, especially when it came to things the adults were doing.

The four family members began a rapid-fire discussion that included so many unfamiliar place names and references like 'down by the creek' that he could barely follow. Yvonne handed the pieces back to Sam. "I believe I know where to find the iron for you, Monsieur Beckett."

"Great!" Sam said. "Let's go get it so I can get started."

Yvonne smiled as if at a child who'd asked the impossible. "It would be better if you did not go with me."

George had necessarily been fairly quiet during the meal and discussion, but could see that there was a problem. "What's the matter? Can't she get it for us?"

Sam looked puzzled. "Yes. Or at least she thinks she can," he told George. "But she doesn't seem to want me to go with her."

George laughed loudly. "'Course not, you dolt!" he relied. "You'd stick out like a sore thumb in your uniform." He reached out to tug on Sam's sleeve to make the point. "Most folks around here like to pretend they're neutral, just in case the Huns should get across the line and take over this area."

"Please believe me, we will do all we can to help," Etienne said. "But not everyone feels that way; we must be a little careful."

"Is our presence here a danger to you?" Sam asked sharply.

"It's one thing to have soldiers visit," Yvonne began.

"Soldiers are always dropping out of the sky!" Madeleine put in cheerfully.

Yvonne stroked her daughter's hair fondly. "We just don't want to be seen helping too much. You understand; we do not know who will win this war."

"But you do help us," Sam said leadingly. "George told me you've been a big help." He wanted so badly to tell them that the Allies would indeed win this war, but they would assume he was just trying to be optimistic. Besides, he was all too aware of Al's prediction and hadn't a clue what to do about it. _Yet_, he told himself.

"We do not want the Germans to control our land," Etienne said firmly. "Thus, we do whatever we can. You need iron? We find iron for you. We watch the skies for aeroplanes that have crashed; we tend to the pilots and help them get back to their camp – or detain the German pilots until they can be arrested."

"We pass on any information that might be useful," Yvonne put in.

"What kind of information?" Sam asked.

"Oh, you would be surprised at all the little things that are mentioned in letters," she said airily. "Someone's German cousin writes that his entire unit is being moved perhaps. He does not say _where_ of course, but it may help the generals to know that the forces are moving around."

Sam smiled in understanding. "Okay, I get it. And, uh, we really appreciate all your help." Privately he thought, _They're the resistance. Or the beginnings of it anyway; I don't remember an organized resistance movement in World War One._

"Just please be careful," he added. He wondered if the coming bomb were some kind of retaliation. He had two days' time until it happened; maybe he could think of some way to prevent it. A decoy of some sort? Could he convince them to dine in the dark and leave lanterns lit in the barn? He felt like he was in some spy novel.

"Always!" Yvonne replied. "We will send word to the chateau if we are able to find some iron for you."

"Thank you," Sam told them. Then he gave George the short story and said, "So I guess that's our cue to leave."

"Right you are!" George said. "We'll be getting you back to Bertangles one way or another."

As if he didn't have enough on his mind, Sam wondered if he'd have to hitch a ride in a haywagon.


	5. Chapter 5

Chapter 5

Sam hadn't been surprised to find a lot of work waiting for him when he'd gotten back to the aerodrome. Thankfully most of it could be done under the tent, as the weather had turned cool and rainy. He'd dived in and taken care of the most critical repairs first and then began to knock out a series of small items.

At least that had been the plan. There were so many vehicles in this encampment that it seemed like something was always breaking down. The planes had top priority, but if an officer's car needed attention he seemed to think Sam should drop everything to fix it. Doubtless Al would've had some pithy comment about that, but Sam hadn't seen him since yesterday morning. He assumed there was nothing else for Al to report, though it crossed his mind to wonder if Al just didn't want to tell him how many men were going to die over the next few days so he wouldn't have to worry about them all.

It was now after lunch on Saturday. Captain Downey had called around mid-morning to say the item he needed was ready; it had sounded cryptic and Sam wondered if that had really been necessary. He didn't think the art of tapping phone lines had been invented yet, but remembered the Fortiers' caution and understood that it fell under the maxim "better safe than sorry". The problem was that he was in the middle of carving a new wing spar and needed to finish that before he could leave.

Sam was dragging a heavy wooden crate full of ammo over to the plane so he could use it as a makeshift workbench for the final adjustments to the spar. The noise had masked the sound of Al's arrival, so when Al walked through the fuselage and asked, "How's it going, Sam?" it startled him.

He shoved the box a little harder than he'd intended and it caught on the uneven ground and flipped onto its side. The lid promptly fell off and the ammo belt began slithering out onto the ground. He looked up at Al and muttered, "Speak of the devil."

"Now, is that any way to greet me?" Al asked in a wounded tone. "I've been busy checking up on several _hundred_ soldiers to see if I can get a line on why you're here. Soldiers here at the aerodrome, soldiers at the chateau, soldiers at the gun emplacement…" He broke off as the newly-carved spar fell over onto the pile of ammo.

Sam sighed. "I'm sorry, Al. I've been busy. You wouldn't believe how many things in this camp need to be repaired! I've got to get this spar finished so I can go get the scrap iron and fix that gun." He paused a moment to let Al's words soak in. "Did you find something? Please, _please_, tell me you know what my mission is."

Al took a puff of his cigar. "No. Sorry, Sam. I haven't found any leads." Seeing Sam's look of disappointment he added, "_Yet_. Ziggy and I are still working on it; I just thought I'd drop in and see if you had any ideas."

Sam picked up the spar and propped it against the plane again, then knelt beside the box. "I'm afraid not, Al. I've met a lot of men, but only briefly; just long enough to hear what they want me to fix, or to tell them it's done. I don't know if I'll run into them again or if they'll be injured and sent home or if they'll be killed an hour from now. I don't like this Leap, Al. I don't like not knowing. I don't like _knowing_ that some of these men will die and I can't do anything about it."

"I know, Sam," Al commiserated. "And I'm sorry; this isn't your normal Leap for sure! I know you'd save them all if you could. I also know that that ammo belt got mangled when that spar fell on it; see, it's kinked right there." He pointed with the cigar.

Sam eyed the damage and tried to straighten out the belt as he laid it back in its box. "Yeah, it won't lie flat. Is that a problem?"

"You bet it is!" Al said with feeling. "When that belt goes through the gun it'll jam for sure. The pilot suddenly won't be able to fire at the enemy and he'll probably be lucky if he's not shot down himself."

Sam continued replacing the belt. "Okay, I get the picture, Al. Losing your firepower in the middle of a dog fight isn't a good thing. How about I write "damaged belt" on the box, so they know not to use this one?"

"Yeah, that ought to work," Al agreed. "But since we've both got a lot to do I guess I'll just go back so we can get on with it. I'll check on you again soon, Sam."

"Okay," Sam said. "And thanks, Al. I know you'll tell me the minute you know anything."

Finally he'd gotten the spar fitted and left the job of patching the fabric to someone else. He was just as glad; he'd smelled the "dope" that was used to waterproof the fabric and couldn't imagine having to breathe it for half an hour while applying it. Even in a fairly well-ventilated tent it would make you light-headed.

Apparently repairing the anti-aircraft gun was considered a priority because he was given a car so that he could drive himself. The car didn't go very fast which was probably just as well since the roads were more like dirt paths, heavily rutted and getting worse with the rain. He could've walked there faster, but at least the car had a roof to keep out the worst of the weather. He supposed there was a more direct route, but since he didn't know the area he had to backtrack along the way he'd come from the chateau until he recognized the turnoff toward the farm.

Madeleine was outside picking some fresh herbs when Sam drove up. "_Bonjour_, Monsieur Beckett!" she called cheerily.

"What are you doing outside in the rain?" Sam asked with a grin.

Madeleine ran up to the car, waving the plants. Maman needs these to make dinner; and besides, it's not raining very much." She made a face. "It's so boring having to stay in the house. Maman is teaching me how to sew, but I'd rather be outside."

Denis ran out the front door, having heard the car's engine. "Take me for a ride in the car. Please!" he cried. Then a little more slyly, "Captain Downey says it's a waste of gasoline, but Papa found a lot of iron so that makes it all right."

"You'll have to ask your parents first," Sam said.

"I want to go too!" Madeleine wailed.

Etienne came out the door and assessed the situation. "Denis, is this how we have taught you to treat a guest?" he asked with mock seriousness.

Denis ducked his head in embarrassment. "No, Papa," he mumbled. Then he turned to Sam and said, "Please come inside, Monsieur Beckett, and warm yourself by the fire." His sincerity was genuine, but he spoke a bit stiffly as if he were imitating his parents.

"Yes, do come in," Madeleine added. "Maman will make you something warm to drink. And you can tell us more about America!"

Etienne shook his head in mild exasperation. "Please forgive them, John. They have forgotten their manners in their excitement."

"They're fine, Etienne. They're just being kids," Sam replied.

The children ran into the house ahead of Sam. He paused to quietly tell Etienne, "I'd be glad to give them a ride in the car if it's okay with you and Yvonne."

"I think Yvonne would like that as much as the children," Etienne replied with a wink.

Sam reflected that as a youngster he'd been excited to get to ride in someone's brand-new car, but it was hard to imagine how thrilling it must be for these people to ride in _any_ car. It must seem like magic to them. It was hard to think of that vehicle as the cutting-edge technology they considered it to be.

The house was warm, and that felt good. Yvonne insisted he take off his damp jacket, and offered a sweater. She hung the jacket near the stove to dry at least a little. "You must get warm after your long trip in the rain," she told him. "You don't want to get sick!" She pulled a chair closer to the stove. "Here, you sit by the fire and I will get you some warm wine. Just the thing for such a dreary day!"

Sam started to protest that he didn't want to stay long, but realized it would be rude to refuse the hospitality; and he _was_ cold. "_Merci_, Yvonne. That sounds wonderful."

A few minutes later they were all settled at the table, happily chatting about insignificant topics. Madeleine's attempt at embroidery lay on the sideboard, the needle stuck in the middle of a crude flower. Sam was surprised to see that the children shared the wine. Once again he had to remind himself that he was in a different place and time. Neither Madeleine nor Denis seemed to think it was a special event to be allowed wine, though they were limited to one glass each. Sam decided he didn't need any more than that himself.

Etienne picked up a burlap bag from a corner of the room and laid it on the table with a clank. "There are several pieces of scrap metal in here, but it will be enough for you, yes?"

Sam opened the bag and pulled out five small pieces of twisted metal. It was impossible to tell what they might have come from, but that didn't matter. He held them in one hand and weighed them against the broken strap in the other. "Feels like this will be more than enough," he said. "I can't thank you enough, and I'm sure the gunners will, too." He grinned at their memory. "I think they feel useless without their gun."

"I'm sure their officers will find _something_ to keep them occupied," Yvonne laughed.

"Perhaps that's what they're afraid of," Etienne said. "Monsieur Beckett, may I ask a favor of you?"

"Sure," Sam replied, thinking of the car ride. "I'd be happy to help you if I can."

"There is a piece on my plow that has broken in two, much like that one you need to replace," he began. "If I have found more than enough iron for that job, would it be possible for you to mend it for me?"

"I'll, uh, have to make sure I get the gun strap fixed first," Sam said a little uncertainly.

"_Mais oui, bien sûr_!" Etienne said. "The plow, it does not need as much strength as the gun; if you could just put the two pieces back together that would be fine. And if there is not enough iron, I will find some other way."

"I'll be happy to give it a try," Sam said. "Why don't we go take a look at it?"

Denis was squirming almost uncontrollably. "It's in the shed," he said. "It's a long walk in the rain…"

Sam and Etienne both smiled, knowing the point the boy was trying to make. "There is no reason you need to go along," Etienne said, trying to keep a straight face.

"You could stay here where it's warm and dry," Sam said, doing a better job of teasing the boy. "I bet you have some school lessons you could do to keep yourself occupied."

Denis clearly felt he was being betrayed, but Madeleine was watching the adults' faces intently and smiling quietly.

Etienne rose from the table and walked to a window, pulling the curtains aside to peer out. "It is raining harder now. Perhaps we should wait to see if it lets up." He turned to wink at Sam.

"Or we could go in the car," Sam said casually.

"Oh, yes, please!" Denis cried, fairly bouncing in his chair.

"_Je ne sais pas_," Etienne said, dragging the words out slowly and looking at his wife.

"I could take him there if you'd prefer to stay in the house," Yvonne said, finally understanding what was going on. "I've never ridden in an automobile," she added with some excitement.

"And I could go along, too," Denis suggested.

"You should stay here with Papa," Madeleine told her brother self-importantly. "Maman and I will show him the way. Just because we are ladies it does not mean we can't help."

"I think there would be enough room for both of you," Yvonne said. "Go and put your coats on. We are asking Monsieur Beckett for help; don't make him wait on you!"

Sam retrieved his jacket and went outside to start the car. It was a reflex action. He'd intended to let it warm up but had forgotten that not only was there no heater, the cab was open to the air. Yvonne was first out the door, and had thought to bring a blanket. The kids ran out a moment later and squeezed in, Madeleine sitting on her mother's lap, with the blanket covering them.

Sam drove them up and down the road to their house at the sedate pace of 15 MPH; it was as fast as the car would go without risking losing control on the muddy lane. A good horse could run that fast, and the ride might even be steadier. But he understood that it was a new and exciting experience for them, and was pleased that all three seemed thrilled with it as evidenced by their cries of wonder.

He suggested driving them around the farm, thinking he might be able to find some picturesque site for a picnic spot. It had occurred to him that if planes were able to fly tomorrow evening then it wouldn't be raining, though it might still be cool. The family probably wouldn't care about picnicking on their own property, but they might be willing to do it to amuse their new friend. If he could find a place far enough away from the house that he thought safe he'd suggest the idea.

The problem was that the paths around the farm were made by people or horses; they weren't suitable for the car. He had to stop and turn around or back up several times because he was afraid the car would get stuck. His passengers seemed to take it all in stride. He finally had to give up on the idea and simply take them to the shed to retrieve the broken plow part. He consoled himself with the knowledge that he would have to return when he'd repaired it, and maybe he'd think of something else by then. But he wasn't happy about it.

Sam was hot and tired and dirty. And hungry; it was after dinnertime and he was still working in the chateau's forge. He knew the principal of working iron, but found that the reality took an awful lot of physical effort. Thankfully Al had shown up soon after he'd arrived and, with Ziggy's help, had been able to give him some tips on the process. Heat the iron until it glowed orange, then place it on an anvil and beat it into some semblance of the desired shape with a large hammer. After a few blows the metal had cooled to a red blush and he could rest his arm while he heated it again.

He'd finished making the replacement gun strap and was in the process of repairing Etienne's plow. Al hadn't had any further brainstorms on his mission, but he was glad of the company. Al had not said – nor did Sam ask – how many soldiers had died this day. He had to believe that GFTW would somehow give him a hint of what he was supposed to do.

Suddenly the handlink began squealing. They both stared in its direction

for a moment; finally Al pulled it from his pocket and read the message on its screen. He put it back and shook his head sadly.

"What?" Sam asked. "Did something bad happen?"

"The Red Baron strikes again," Al replied. "He's shot down two more planes this evening. That makes a total of 80 kills."

"Well, that's not good," Sam said between ringing blows of his hammer. "But there'll be 20 more before it's over."

"We've been over this, Sam," Al said. "It's not just the number of men lost, it's a morale issue."

Sam stuck the piece back into the fire. "I understand that, Al. I just don't know what I can possibly _do_ about it. I really wish there was, but I'm having trouble handling this whole situation. If I worry about all the things I _can't_ do, then I won't get anything done." He smiled rather bleakly. "I don't _want_ to feel that way; but I have to distance myself somehow or I'll drive myself crazy."

"You're right, Sam," Al said in a placating tone. "But look at it this way. Maybe you've _already_ done something that will take care of the Baron."

"Like _what?_" Sam demanded.

"Oh, I don't know. Maybe you fixed an airplane that your Great Uncle didn't and that pilot will get off a lucky shot or something."

"You're just trying to make me feel better," Sam accused grumpily.

"Yes, I am," Al replied cheerfully. "Did it work?"

"Maybe a little," Sam admitted. "I really do appreciate your effort."

"You're welcome. You gonna go back to the aerodrome after you get done here?"

"Yeah, I guess so," Sam said. "It'll be dark soon so I won't be able to actually fix the gun tonight. Besides, there's probably something there that needs my mechanical skills. They never seem to run out of work for me to do, but at least these machines aren't very complicated."

"Gives you a whole new appreciation for our modern technology, doesn't it?" Al asked rhetorically. "Okay then, you get some rest, Sam. I promise, I'll let you know the minute I learn anything."


	6. Chapter 6

Chapter 6

Sam decided it would be easier to stay the night at the chateau. It was closer to the gun emplacement so he could fix it first thing Sunday morning and then drop by Etienne's farm with the plow part on the way to the aerodrome. Between the primitive car, the bad roads, and the rain he decided he didn't want to travel any more than he had to.

He'd planned to get an early start, but things didn't go according to plan. Several of the men billeted there asked him to take a look at various pieces of machinery that weren't working right. He'd been able to fix a few of them, but finally drew the line and insisted he must get to the gun emplacement. They accepted that readily enough, but it worried Sam. Which job was more important? Would the newly-repaired anti-aircraft gun shoot down a German plane that would otherwise kill an Allied pilot? Or should he stay at the chateau and fix the courier's motorbike? If he did then maybe the courier would carry a critical message – or if not, the man might be stuck by the side of the road with a broken-down bike and so _not_ be in the spot where a bomb hit. It was impossible to know.

When he arrived at Corbie Hill around 9:30 in the morning the weather was beginning to clear. Sam viewed this as a bad thing, in that planes would be able to fly and men would probably be killed. Certainly the Fortiers' house would be bombed this evening; knowing that, he wanted desperately to stop it somehow, but hadn't yet figured out how. Reggie and Billy were in the middle of a card game when Sam arrived.

"G'day, John," Billy said, though he kept his eyes on his cards.

"G'day!" Reggie said. "Cap'n sent word you'd be here sometime today. I'm glad you got here early because it looks like the weather's breaking. We might need to work today."

"G'day," Sam echoed. "I got here as soon as I could." He pulled the strap from his pocket and brandished it. "_And_ with a brand-new replacement for the piece you two broke." He grinned to let them know he was teasing.

"Wasn't like it was _our_ fault," Reggie protested.

"But we're glad to know you fixed it, anyway," Billy said. "It's been awful dull around here what with not having a gun to man. Raise you two." This last was said to the card players.

"It wasn't the gun. 'Twere the rain; nothing flying to shoot at," Reggie told him. He tossed his cards on the table with disgust. "I'm out. Bloody cards, I've got nothin'."

"I can tell you're busy," Sam said. "So I'll just get started on some _real_ work."

As he left he heard Reggie holler, "We'll come help just as soon as Billy here loses this hand."

Sam had barely begun bolting on the new strap when Reggie and Billy showed up. Billy climbed atop the gun to help steady the piece while Sam turned the wrench.

"He won with only a pair of 5's!" Reggie told Sam in a disgusted tone. "I had a pair of 6's; I could've beaten him."

Billy grinned broadly. "Then you shouldn't have quit, Mate. Anyway, you had your luck yesterday; you got a letter from your Mum. It's been two weeks since I've had a letter from home."

Sam paused in his work, thinking how nice it would be if _he_ could get letters from home. "So, ah, how's your family doing?" he asked politely.

"Pretty well," Reggie replied. "Mum sent a picture of my sister Peggy." He dug in one of the many pockets of his uniform jacket and found the picture. "Here, want to see her?"

Sam leaned down to look at the picture Reggie held. "She's a pretty girl, Reggie. Is she married? Do you have nieces and nephews?"

"Good job she doesn't look a thing like her big brother!" Billy quipped.

"You're just jealous 'cause you don't _have_ a sister," Reggie responded. "Only boys in his family," he explained to Sam. "Don't be gettin' your hopes up, Mate; Peggy's married, her husband is over here, somewhere. Mum didn't say it right out, but I don't think Peggy's heard from him for awhile and she's worried."

"Well, uh, I'm sure the mail is slow getting across the ocean," Sam said, trying to ease his mind. "She'll probably get a whole bundle of letters any day now."

"Maybe she's already got 'em," Billy said. "Your letter was dated three weeks ago; like John said, the mail is slow."

"I'm sure that's all it is," Sam said. "Hand me that bolt and I'll get it started in the top hole."

Al materialized in the middle of the big tent that he thought of as "Sam's". A crew was pushing a plane outside, apparently in something of a hurry.

"Sam?" he called out. "Sam, are you in here somewhere?" Receiving no answer he walked through the canvas wall to look outside. "Looks like a lot of activity around here," he muttered to himself. Planes were lining up along the rough runway and men were running toward them with a purpose.

He went back inside the tent, again calling out for his friend. "He said he was coming back here, but maybe he's already left for the gun emplacement. Sam?"

A pair of young soldiers ran in and looked around, then headed for a pile of ammo boxes. Al wandered over out of curiosity. Each man grabbed one of the handles, picked up the box between them and started outside.

"Hey, wait!" Al yelled. "Don't take that box, that's the one that Sam damaged. It's not safe – can't you read the warning on the lid?"

But of course they couldn't hear him, nor see him frantically waving his arms as he stood in front of them in an attempt to block their path. Al followed them out as another pair came in for the next box. He felt helpless, and could only hope that _someone_ would notice Sam's scrawled message. Under other circumstances he would enjoy watching the process of feeding the belt into the machine guns, but now all he could think of was that this pilot might die because of Sam's error.

The pilot walked up, looking nervous. Another pilot approached him. "Lieutenant May, remember your orders. This is your first fight; you are to _observe_ only and not engage the enemy."

"Yes, Sir, Captain Brown," May replied.

Al began to feel a little better. Maybe this would work out okay after all, if Lt. May followed orders. He pulled the handlink out of his pocket and began searching for any information on the coming action.

Sam gave the wrench one last turn. "That's it, bolts are on good and tight, the gun's fixed and safe to fire again." He hopped down from his perch and took a quick look from ground level, as if to make sure he hadn't forgotten something.

"Looks good as new," Billy commented happily.

"I wish we could test it," Sam said. "But I guess your captain might not appreciate that."

"It'll either work, or it won't," Billy said, shrugging his shoulders. "I'm betting it _will_."

Sam laughed. "Well, I sure hope your luck at cards holds here!"

Reggie was scanning the sky, turning from east to west and back again. "We might just get a chance to use that gun sooner than you think."

Sam and Billy looked where Reggie pointed and saw a cloud of tiny dots in both directions. The dots were rapidly becoming large enough to distinguish as planes. The Allied planes coming from the west were bi-planes, though many of the German planes to the east showed the distinctive three-winged silhouette.

"John, you'd best go find yourself a helmet," Billy suggested. "I'm assuming you'll not be leaving us; you didn't last time. You're a brave man and a good mate to stick with us and help out."

"I don't think you'd have time to get away anyway," Reggie said. He pointed northwest. "The Huns are chasing some of ours. I only see two, looks like a couple of R.E.8's; it's probably a couple of blokes out doing photo reconnaissance. If they come this way we may have a chance at them."

Billy stuck a finger in his mouth, then held it up to gauge the wind. "Wind's out of the east today," he told them. "That's unusual, but it could be to our advantage."

"How's that?" Sam asked.

"If the Huns don't pay attention it'll blow their planes over the lines before they realize where they are. They'll be closer so we'll have a better chance of hitting them," Billy explained.

The three men watched the action in the sky. The German planes would get into position behind the "Harry Tates", which would then twist out of their way. They could see shots being exchanged; the dogfight went on for a good five minutes.

"Yes!" Reggie cried. "He hit the tripe!"

"It's turning tail and running for home," Billy announced.

Sam pointed to large puffs of smoke in the distance. "Someone else seems to be doing your job," he teased.

"As long as Huns are shot down we don't care _who's_ doing the shooting," Reggie said with feeling.

"I think someone else has seen the action," Billy reported.

The knot of Allied planes to the west was headed that direction, quickly resolving into three squadrons of five planes each.

"I think you're right," Sam said. "I'll go make myself useful so you two can get to work."

Sam ran for the shack near the top of the hill, offering his assistance to the man in charge. As he buckled the helmet he'd been given Al showed up.

Before the Imaging Chamber door had a chance to close he started yelling. "Sam, there's gonna be a big dogfight over that way," he said, waving his arm to the northwest. He paused to take in Sam's appearance. "Oh, ha, ha. I guess you already figured that out."

"Does anyone here get hit this time?" Sam asked.

"Ziggy says no," Al replied, though he sounded a little uncertain.

"Are you sure?" Sam demanded. "You don't _sound_ very sure."

Al was poking at the buttons on the handlink. "Ah, well, Ziggy says things are in a state of flux."

Sam frowned. "What do you _mean_, a state of flux?"

Al shrugged uncomfortably. "Well, you know; it's a dogfight. Things could change in a split second."

Sam raised one eyebrow. "Shouldn't everything happen just the way it did? I damn sure didn't do anything to change history!"

Al winced at Sam's statement. He couldn't be sure that the damaged ammo belt would be a problem, but he didn't want to tell Sam that the box had been loaded into Lt. May's plane; he didn't want to worry Sam needlessly. He made a dismissive gesture with his hand. "The problem is that we don't _know_ what you might have done. You've been so busy, we don't know what you might have done differently than your uncle. There's just…"

"Too many variables," Sam said wearily. "I know, you told me that already."

"I'm here, Sam," Al tried to soothe his friend. "I'm an experienced combat pilot; I'll keep watch and let you know in plenty of time if there's any danger to this post. I promise."

"I'm sorry, Al. I know you will. I'm guessing you still don't have any idea why I'm here. Maybe like you said, I've done some little something that will make a difference."

"Look at those guys _fly_!" Al said. "I thought _sure_ that plane was a goner, but he zigged out of the way and now he's on his enemy's tail."

Sam looked where Al was pointing. "That plane there? Al, I hate to tell you this, but it's a German plane and he's shooting at a British plane."

Al looked only marginally abashed. "Yeah, well, I can still appreciate his skill, can't I? Besides, here comes a Sopwith Camel to shoot at _him_." Al leaned forward as if he were trying to get a closer look. "Ziggy, center me on that Camel."

Al blinked out and back in a moment later. He looked worried.

"What's wrong?" Sam asked.

"Oh, you see, I was looking for you a little bit ago – I thought you'd still be at the aerodrome at Bertangles – and, well, I got sort of interested in watching these guys starting out. That's Lt. May, he's new to the squadron, and I heard his C.O., Captain Brown, tell him to stay out of the fight. He was only supposed to _observe_."

"I never met a Lt. May," Sam said with confidence. "So I couldn't possibly have done anything to change what happens to him. He probably got caught up in the excitement and he'll realize it here in a minute and go back to observing. He'll probably get a reprimand from his C.O. when they get back to the aerodrome."

Al kept his attention on the dogfight, partially to watch and partially so Sam wouldn't see his concern. _Maybe it'll still be okay_, he thought.

Suddenly the bi-plane flew out of the fray, headed west along the Somme river. A red tri-plane followed. As they watched the Camel maneuvered wildly trying to evade his enemy; it did little good.

"What happened?" Sam asked.

"His guns must've jammed," Al said. "He's trying to get the Hell out of Dodge and get back to base." They could both see the German fire twin streams of bullets, but Lt. May managed to avoid them. "He's so green he doesn't know what he's doing," Al remarked. "The other pilot probably can't outguess him."

"Will he make it?" Sam asked.

"Maybe. There's another Camel chasing the tripe. Look, he's firing at it – he hit it, Sam!"

The trio of planes was flying low by now and went behind a line of trees, blocking them from sight. Al requested a quick close-up look at the situation. When he reappeared the second Camel had overtaken the other two planes and seemed to be heading home.

"That was Captain Brown," Al said. "He thought he'd taken out the German, but he's low on fuel and ammo so he's going back to the barn."

"He hit the plane, we saw that; but he didn't shoot it down," Sam said.

"Sam, that red tri-plane…it's Von Richthofen."

"The Red Baron himself?" Sam asked in surprise.

Soldiers had been running around them during the dogfight; one man overheard Sam's exclamation. "The bloody Red Baron?" he asked in astonishment. "Are you _sure_?"

"Pretty sure," Sam replied. The man ran off and Sam could hear him relaying the news to the others.

Lt. May banked north, giving the Aussie gunners a clear shot at the Baron. They missed. But Von Richthofen stopped firing at the Camel.

"Now _his_ guns have jammed!" Al shouted.

The red tri-plane banked to the east, as if making a run for safety. The Australian guns spat a second time and this time they connected. The Red Baron's plane glided toward the earth. At the last minute he threw something out of the cockpit and they could see it sparkle briefly as the sun caught it.

"Those were his goggles," Al reported.

"The lenses are _glass_," Sam said, suddenly understanding. "He might be able to set the plane down without being hurt too badly, but he wouldn't want to take a chance on the goggles shattering and cutting his eyes."

One more time Al popped out and back in. "He's dead, Sam."

"He crashed?" Sam asked.

"The plane sort of nosed in." Al demonstrated with his hand against the handlink, indicating the tail of the plane sticking up in the air. "The crash didn't kill him, but there's a bullet hole in his chest close to the heart. I doubt he was still alive when he hit the ground."

"Von Richthofen is _dead_?" Sam asked in disbelief.

Behind them soldiers cheered loudly at the news. He could hear shouts of "'E got what's coming to him" and "It's about bloody time". Men dashed to the gunners to relay the good tidings and the gunners began cheering as well.

Sam looked around himself uncertainly, but didn't get that tingling sensation that presaged a Leap. He turned to Al and said, "Well I guess you were wrong about me being here to kill the Red Baron. I'm still here."

Al looked a little uncomfortable. "Well, yeah, no, you're right."

Sam was enjoying seeing his friend squirm. "And I didn't shoot him down. I was here on the ground the whole time."

"But, Sam, he didn't get killed the first time April 21, 1918 rolled around."

"Maybe so, but I'll be damned if I know what I changed," Sam said.

"You wanna know?" asked Al.

"You _know_? Al, are you telling me that I really _did_ do something that caused the man's death? I fixed one of those planes up there just now and somehow that made a difference?"

"Well, you didn't exactly do it on purpose," Al told him slyly.

"What are you talking about, Al? How could I not do something on purpose that would have such an impact?" Sam was getting a bit testy now.

"I'll tell you," Al said smugly.

"I wish you would," Sam snapped.

"I didn't want to tell you before because I didn't want you to be concerned. You've been pretty tense on this Leap."

"That's because I don't know why I'm here, and I don't like the idea that I can't help so many of these people."

"It was the ammo belt," Al told him.

"The one I dumped out, that got bent up?" Sam requested clarification.

Al nodded as if Sam had just gotten the punch line of a joke. "That's the one. They loaded it into Lt. May's plane this morning. I saw it happen when I was there looking for you."

"But I wrote a message on that box so they _wouldn't_ use it," Sam said in confusion.

"Yes, you did," Al agreed. "Except they were in a hurry to get the ammo loaded and no one bothered to read what you wrote. They loaded it anyway."

Sam's face grew thoughtful. "And the kinked belt jammed May's gun so he had to leave the fight."

"Von Richthofen sensed he was helpless and followed him. Except he didn't realize that the wind had blown him over the lines and the gunners got in a lucky shot. You did it, Sam. You changed history."

"Ah, well, I'm sure the credit will go to someone else," Sam said. "I just played a small part."

Al punched up the info on the handlink. "Hey, that's interesting," he commented. "Apparently Captain Brown was given official credit for the kill."

"He did shoot at the Baron's plane, but we saw him fly off and Von Richthofen was still chasing Lt. May. If he didn't kill him, who did?"

"Well it sure as Hell wasn't that cartoon beagle!" Al exclaimed. "A lot of men claimed they fired the fatal shot. It was a big controversy for a long time. But by the time they figured out it was the Australian gunners nobody cared anymore."

"That's kind of sad," Sam commented. But he didn't have time to say more as Billy and Reggie ran up to him, happily yelling about the Red Baron's demise, hugging him and slapping him on the back in their glee.

Sam was still helping the men clean up and re-stock an hour later when Captain Downey drove up to check on the rumors regarding Von Richthofen. "What are you doing here, Beckett?" he asked in surprise.

"I got that gun fixed this morning," Sam replied. "Just in time for the big fight it seems."

"Marvelous!" George said. "I know that isn't your usual job and I really appreciate your taking it on. I can't thank you enough! And the Fortiers too, of course. Couldn't have done it without their help. I'll be sure to tell them next time I see them."

"You're welcome," Sam told him. "I'm, uh, going to drop by their farm after I leave here; I'll pass along your compliments."

"Fine, you do that," the captain said. "Not just for this; they've been a lot of help throughout the war. Tell them I'll think of some really special treat to show my appreciation. Though at the moment I can't think of what it would be; all the good stuff is rationed these days. It would be nice if I could find something they could all enjoy."

Sam smiled with genuine pleasure. He'd just figured out how to kill two birds with one stone. "Captain, I think I know something that would thrill the whole family."


	7. Chapter 7

Chapter 7

"Oh, what a beautiful house!" Madeleine cried.

"That's the chateau, _ma petite_," Etienne explained. "You know, where the rich people live?" To Sam he said, "We don't get this far from home often, she's never been here."

Once again Sam was struck by the realization that travel was not easy in this era; despite the relatively short distance these people had had no _need_ to come here, especially just to look at a way of life they would never have.

"But the family is in Paris now, no?" Yvonne asked. "This is the, how do you say it? The _headquarters_ of the Australian soldiers."

"That's right," Sam agreed. "They wanted to thank you for all the help you've provided."

"What, for showing hospitality to the soldiers? Passing along some information and finding a few pieces of scrap metal?" she asked.

"It's all more important than you think," Sam replied. "You never know when some seemingly small thing turns out to be vitally important." _As I recently found out for myself,_ he thought.

"We did those things to help, because we wanted to," Etienne said. "Now they have invited us to dine with them to show their appreciation. It is a nice gesture on their part and we are thankful for it."

"Will we be allowed to see the inside of the house?" Madeleine wanted to know.

"There are so many shortages, but there _are_ officers here. Do you think we will dine well?" Yvonne asked. "Not that it matters; it will be exciting just to be there even if they serve cabbage soup!"

"Can I see the aeroplanes?" Denis asked.

Sam took the questions in order. "I'm sure they will give you the grand tour of the chateau, Madeleine. You'll get to see each and every room! Captain Downey didn't tell me what was on the menu, but I'd bet he's told the cook to make something special for you, Yvonne."

"Monsieur Beckett," Madeleine interrupted. "You have passed the house," she said worriedly.

"That's because…" Sam drove the car over the top of a small hill. "Denis – and _all_ of you – are going to get a really close look at the…"

"_Aeroplanes!"_ cried Denis.

Denis jumped out of the car as soon as Sam brought it to a halt. He ran a few steps closer to the planes; then he remembered his manners and stopped, hopping from one foot to the other in his impatience for the others to catch up.

Captain Downey had seen the car arrive and came over to greet them. "Mr. Beckett tells me that you'd like to see our flying machines. If you'll just come this way. Oh, mind the rough ground."

"Denis!" Etienne called to his son. "Stay with us and do not touch the aeroplanes. You wouldn't want to damage them."

Denis sighed but was far too excited to be upset at the restriction. Madeleine stuck her hands firmly into the pockets of her coat lest temptation get the better of her and after a moment Denis copied her move, albeit reluctantly.

The captain led them to a two-seat bi-plane. With Sam acting as translator he explained how they worked and what all the parts were and answered all their questions. Denis was full of them, wanting to know everything; but the other family members were just as enthralled. Sam and George exchanged a look that said this had indeed been the perfect treat.

"Well, now that you've seen the plane, are you ready to have dinner?" George asked. He consulted his watch. "It's a bit early, Cook won't have it ready yet. Perhaps while we wait you'd like to go up in the plane? Just a short hop around the field, because of the petrol you know."

"_S'il vous plaît!"_ Yvonne said excitedly. She blushed a bit at her enthusiasm, but her grin remained in place.

"_Mais oui."_ For once Denis stood stock still, too stunned by his good fortune to do more than answer.

George laughed good-naturedly. "I understand that much French! Who wants to go first?" He pointed to Denis. "Perhaps the young man here?"

Denis' eyes were still sparkling an hour later at dinner. The language barrier kept him from chattering everyone's ears off, which at least allowed him to do justice to the meal. Madeleine had gotten her tour of the chateau and had privately confided to her mother that although it was lovely she wouldn't like to live there because she would have no time to do anything but keep it clean. Yvonne clearly enjoyed the food, though she seemed to feel intimidated by the surroundings and didn't speak much. Reggie and Billy had been invited as well since it was their gun that had been repaired.

Sam again acted as interpreter for a lively discussion of obviously embroidered tales of wartime derring-do and peacetime hunting by the Australians. He couldn't tell if Etienne was taken in by these or not, though the Frenchman clearly thought they were making up the kangaroos.

"Have you no trees there?" Etienne asked. "I don't think I would like to live in such a hot and barren place."

"Oh, I don't know," Sam commented. "It, um, sounds like the land has a rugged beauty all its own."

"Perhaps you can come for a visit when this wretched was is over," Reggie suggested. "We can go walkabout and I'll show you the sights."

Al chose that moment to appear. "Sam, I thought you'd like to know."

"What is it?" Sam asked quietly.

"You go out for a walk – for weeks at a time!" Billy explained. "You go wherever you like and live off the land."

"That German plane just dropped the bomb on Etienne's farm," Al told him.

"When?" asked Sam.

"Just a few seconds ago," Al replied. "But Ziggy says it didn't hit the house; maybe because nobody was home and the lights weren't on. It blew a big hole in a pasture; I didn't wanna look too close, but I think it was full of cows." He scrunched up his face and stuck his tongue out in disgust at what he might have seen. "But, Sam, the house wasn't hit and the family is obviously safe."

"Whenever you want to, Mate," Reggie answered. "You're welcome at my home anytime you'd like to come."

"That's great!" Sam said. He sat up a little straighter and looked around, trying to determine if he felt a Leap coming on. "I don't think I'm going anywhere just yet."

"Neither are we," Billy laughed. "We're all stuck here for awhile. You'll want to go home first and see your own family; but just let us know when you're coming and we'll have a great time."

Al checked the handlink. "Doesn't look like that was what you were here for, Sam. I _know_ you were hoping it was. And before you ask, we still don't have a clue what your mission is!"

"Ah, well, I guess I'll just have to stay here for the time being," Sam answered both at once.

A young man scurried into the dining room and whispered something to the captain. George shook his head with the resignation of accepting bad news. He gestured to catch Sam's attention so Sam could resume his role as translator.

"Etienne, I'm sorry to say that we just received word over the wireless that a bomb has landed somewhere on your farm."

"_Mon Dieu!"_ Etienne exclaimed in disbelief. Yvonne clapped her hand to her mouth in horror at the news.

"We have our very own bomb crater!" Denis cried with the excitement of the young who don't understand the gravity of the situation. "Can we go see it after dinner?"

"The house, was it hit?" asked Etienne. "Or the barn – and oh, what about the animals?"

George conferred briefly with the messenger. "I'm afraid there aren't many details at the moment, but there were no reports of fire so I would think it didn't hit any of the buildings. I understand that you'd like to see for yourselves, but it's dangerous and it's too dark to see any damage."

Madeleine spoke up. "If the animals are injured we must see to them tonight. They shouldn't have to suffer because of the war."

Sam smiled a little sadly. "No, they shouldn't, Madeleine. But I think what Captain Downey is trying to say is that you should stay here tonight for your own safety. _You're_ more important than the animals." To himself he thought _Gee, I hope the cows are all right._

George nodded agreement. "That's a good idea, Beckett. Etienne, you and your family will sleep here tonight; I'll send a couple of men with you in the morning to help clean up any damage. I hope it's not too bad. At least _you_ weren't there."

Five pilots immediately offered their rooms, though for a minute it looked like they might start a fist fight over the privilege. George put an end to it by choosing one, muttering something about his room being the least messy.

Sam smiled enigmatically. _He_ knew he was responsible for the family's absence. He still didn't know what GFTW wanted of him on this Leap, but he was glad he'd managed to keep them safe.

Sam had assumed he would go back to his post at Bertangles on Monday morning, but it wasn't to be. George asked him to accompany Etienne back to the farm with two other men. Yvonne and the children had been convinced to stay at the chateau until the extent of the damage could be assessed; Etienne didn't want them to see the destruction if it was bad.

It was bad enough. Al had been right; the house and out-buildings were untouched, but cows had been grazing in that pasture and several of them had been killed or wounded. Some of them had to be shot, and Sam almost couldn't watch though he knew it was for the best. He put his medical skills to use taking care of the ones who could be saved, glad to be able to help. Like Madeleine, he was concerned that the animals suffered as little as possible yet he knew very well that each cow was a monetary investment for Etienne.

Etienne, carrying a rope halter, walked up to where Sam was working. "Is this one ready to go to the barn? I cannot believe you have actually saved it."

Sam inspected the wound he'd just stitched up. "You'll have to take good care of her," he said, patting the cow fondly on the rump. "Keep that wound clean so it doesn't get infected. That won't be easy with a cow!"

"I think that will be a job for Madeleine," Etienne said, smiling slightly. "She will enjoy nursing it back to health. I'm afraid Denis' head is too full of automobiles and aeroplanes to be thinking of chores on the farm."

"I'm sorry about that," Sam said. "I just thought he would enjoy getting a ride."

Etienne waved away Sam's apology. "_Pas du tout!"_ Think nothing of it. Those machines, they will become much more common as he grows to be a man. It is good that he had the chance to be introduced to them."

Sam chuckled. "You never know, you might even use mechanized equipment here on the farm someday."

Etienne considered this. "They would cost a great deal of money. But then they would only need to be 'fed' gasoline when they worked." He gave an expressive Gallic shrug. "We will see. Right now I must see to butchering the cows I have lost; at least the meat will be useful."

Yet again Sam was reminded of the different time period; though there was little difference between their being killed with a bullet or a piece of shrapnel, those animals had lain dead for over half a day. "Uh, what will you do with it? It's already starting to spoil and your family can't possibly use it all."

Etienne smiled enigmatically. "I understand you Americans are fond of beef. Perhaps I can make a deal with the military; I'm sure the soldiers would appreciate a few good meals, and they are so many they would eat it up quickly."

Sam laughed at the man's cunning plan. "I'm sure they would! 'An army travels on its stomach' and all that. But will they pay you a good price?"

"Anything is better than nothing," Etienne replied. "Their loss will make things more difficult, but we are not so easily defeated. I am thankful that it was only cows that we lost; my family was not injured and our home is still there. What more could one ask for in the midst of a war?"

"I'm glad you're all okay, too," Sam told him. "This war will end someday soon, I think, and you'll be able to get on with your lives." He couldn't bear to tell him that another war would break out in barely 20 years' time and that once again his farm would likely be in the middle of it.

"I'm sure you are right," Etienne said. "But for now, I must make the best of things. There is nothing more you can do to help here, Monsieur Beckett. Perhaps you would be so kind as to return to the chateau and speak to Captain Downey about the meat; he will know who can use it. Oh, and I would rather Yvonne and the children not see this sight, so I would appreciate it if they could stay there until evening. We should have it loaded onto wagons and removed by that time."

"I understand, Etienne. I'll give them the message and then I should probably get back to my post. Good luck with everything. I'm not sure if I'll get back here again, so I'll just say _adieu_."

"_Adieu_, Monsieur Beckett, _et merci bien."_


	8. Chapter 8

Chapter 8

Sam returned to the chateau to pass along Etienne's messages, assuming he would say his goodbyes to Yvonne and the children and get back to work. He was quite sure there would be plenty of broken machinery ready and waiting for him there. He knew George had been in touch with the officers at Bertangles though he hadn't asked what excuses the captain might have given for his absence. He hoped he wasn't in trouble, though he wasn't sure he cared; somehow he felt like this was where he needed to be.

Denis was, not surprisingly, out with the pilots and mechanics "helping" them with the planes. Yvonne and Madeleine were making themselves useful around the chateau by cooking and cleaning. George said he'd make a few calls and find someone to buy the meat.

"It'd be a shame if it went to waste," George told Sam. "If I can shift a few things around in the budget I'll take some of it for my boys. I'll get on it immediately."

"Thank you, Sir," Sam said. "I, uh, guess I'd better be getting back to Bertangles now. You'll see that Yvonne and the kids get back home all right?"

George had picked up the telephone receiver as if Sam had already been dismissed. He held it at shoulder level, ready to use as soon as he answered Sam's question. "Yes, of course. Though if you wouldn't mind, there are a few things here we'd like you to take a look at before you go."

"Of course, Sir." Sam was actually relieved at that. He couldn't put his finger on anything specific, but he felt more and more strongly that his mission would soon be revealed and that it had something to do with someone here at the chateau. Besides, he'd be working wherever he went.

The courier had chatted volubly while Sam tightened the chain on the motorbike. But, friendly as he was, the man complained of never having the chance to see any action which meant the repair would likely neither save his life nor cause his death. As the man rode off Sam held out a faint hope that it meant an important dispatch would now get through, even if the courier didn't see the glamour in that. But Sam felt not the slightest tingle of an impending Leap. As he moved on to his next job he told himself firmly that just because he was still here didn't mean that job hadn't been important.

He told himself the same thing after each job, all afternoon long. At the very least he was resolving a problem for each of those people, making their life a tiny bit easier. He enjoyed talking with them and accepted their gratitude with an easy grace. But none of them produced even the tiniest blip on Sam's Leap radar. He couldn't shake the feeling that this Leap was rapidly drawing to an end, but he was darned if he could figure out how or why. It was frustrating.

To make matters worse, by 4:00 he was working on his last project. He'd managed to take care of all the requests and would have no choice but to return to Bertangles shortly. He'd replaced a broken spoke in a wooden wheel and was in the process of mounting it on the axle of a truck. _Lorry_, he reminded himself; _these guys refer to it as a lorry_.

Al stepped through the Imaging Chamber door. "Hi, Sam. How's it going?" he asked cheerily. He bent closer to inspect Sam's handiwork. "Hey, looks like you're gonna keep someone from singing that old Country Western song." Using his cigar as a conductor's baton he broke into song. "You picked a fine time to leave me, Loose Wheel."

Sam winced at the pun, but couldn't help laughing just a little. He'd needed something to lighten his mood, even a little bit. "We couldn't have that, now could we?"

"You're a mess, Sam. You got grease all over your uniform; there's some on your nose, too."

"I've been doing my job, Al," Sam said in a matter-of-fact tone. "I'm a mechanic; mechanics get dirty. Do you have anything for me, or did you just drop in to suggest I change clothes?"

"No, sorry, Sam. You know, it's _weird_. Ziggy can come up with little tidbits like the fact that Herman Goring will take command of Von Richthofen's squadron, Jasta 11, in July of this year." Al broke off to make eye contact with Sam. "You _do_ remember who Goring was, don't you?"

"Yeah. Too bad I didn't manage to get _him_ shot down, too," Sam said.

"Really," Al said with feeling. "But what I mean is, she can't find enough info on the rank and file soldiers to be able to make any predictions."

"I got that, Al," Sam responded. "I even understand it, a little. You can't know if some guy will be important in the future if he's killed today. And why are you still going on about Von Richthofen? He's dead and I'm still here."

Al looked slightly offended. "He's history, Sam."

"Yes, he's dead, he's history. So what?"

"No, Sam. I meant he's literally a part of history. He's _famous_. His name is synonymous with daring young pilots risking their lives at the beginning of aviation history. He's one of the men you picture wearing goggles and a leather jacket with a dashing white silk scarf. Hey, do you know why they wore that scarf?"

Sam looked confused at the sudden change of topic. "No, but I have a feeling you're about to tell me."

"It's interesting, Sam," Al defended his attitude. "You of _all_ people ought to find these little historical tidbits fascinating. It's cold up there when you're flying, see. They didn't have heaters in the cockpits."

"They didn't have _roofs_ on the cockpits, what good would a heater do?" Sam interrupted.

"My point exactly! It's _cold_ and the pilots, they all wear these heavy leather jackets." Al puffed up his cheeks and moved his arms slightly away from his body to indicate someone all bundled up. "When the collar on that jacket gets cold it gets stiff and hard. Now the pilot needs to be constantly on the lookout for the enemy, so he's all the time turning his head this way and that." He demonstrated in an exaggerated fashion. "And that stiff collar rubs his neck raw. The soft silk scarf prevents that."

Sam nodded in understanding. "And here I thought it was just so they _looked_ like daring pilots to the girls."

"Well, that too," Al conceded. "I've gotten off topic, here. I was gonna tell you that they're gonna hold Von Richthofen's funeral about an hour from now. In the village of Bertangles. You ought to go, Sam."

Sam looked marginally surprised. "Why would I want to? I'm surprised the Allies are even _having_ a funeral for him; he's their sworn enemy."

"There's still some elements of chivalry in this war. The Allies have allowed German planes to cross the lines today so they could drop wreaths in honor of the Rittmeister."

Sam mentally translated that as "riding master", apparently a hold-over from the Baron's cavalry days. "I guess they hope the Germans would do the same for one of our guys."

"Sure. It's all about respect. The 5th Australian Division had a wreath made up with the inscription 'To our gallant and worthy foe.' Though because the villagers wrongly thought he was responsible for bombing their villages at night they'll desecrate the grave. The funeral isn't long, Sam; but you shouldn't pass up the opportunity to be there," he entreated. "_I_ wouldn't miss it!" he added as extra incentive.

Sam thought about it for a minute while Al looked on expectantly. Something felt right about going to the funeral, but what about his feeling that someone here at the chateau was important to his mission? Could the two pieces somehow go together? "Al, I think you're right. From the beginning you told me that the Red Baron had something to do with this Leap, and I think I finally know what it is."

Sam stood at attention with the rest of the soldiers as six Australian officers carried the casket into the small cemetery, followed by a firing party with rifles reversed. As the pallbearers gently lowered the coffin to the ground Sam turned his head to check on Yvonne and the children. He'd talked them into coming with him believing it would be important; but he worried a little that Denis and Madeleine were so young to be seeing this.

Denis caught Sam's eye and waved his hand as if he were glad for the comfort of Sam's presence. Madeleine gave her brother a quick hard stare, then deliberately bowed her head for the coming service. Sam could see Al standing among the trees behind the cemetery; he was wearing his admiral's uniform, standing at parade rest with his hat under his arm. Sam took their hint and returned his attention to the front.

The chaplain read a simple service, and the pallbearers lowered the coffin into the open grave. The firing party let off three volleys. A bugler played the haunting notes of "The Last Post." The soldiers formed up ranks and marched off; Von Richthofen's funeral was over.

Sam _was_ glad he'd come; there was something to be said for paying last respects to _any_ soldier yet the service had had an indefinable air of history-in-the-making as well. People would be interested in this event 100 years from now and, like being in Dallas in November of 1963, he'd been a part of it.

Sam stayed behind because he was to take the Fortiers home. "You'll remember this day the rest of your lives," he told them. "You can tell your grandchildren about it."

"And then I will have to tell them who this baron was," Yvonne responded.

"No, I think he'll be remembered as a valiant warrior for a very long time," Sam told her.

"But he was an _enemy_, a bad man," protested Madeleine.

Sam knelt down to get on the kids' level. "Are the Allied soldiers bad men?" he asked.

"No," replied Denis. "They're here to help protect us."

"The German soldiers help protect their people, too," Sam explained.

"But Papa says they _started_ the war," Madeleine protested.

"The German _leaders_ started the war," Sam corrected her. "I don't think the German people want to hurt us. They're just like you; they want to live and not have their houses destroyed and not lose fathers, sons, and brothers to the war."

Madeleine cocked her head in thought. "I can understand that. The soldiers are just doing what their officers tell them to do."

"That is so," Yvonne agreed. "Yet what are we to do but defend ourselves when they come into our country?"

"Maman, Monsieur Beckett – what is happening over there?" Denis asked in a worried voice. He pointed to the grave site.

Sam turned to see a group of local people gathered around the grave, spitting into it and cursing. As he watched someone snatched up one of the wreaths and began pulling the flowers off, handing them to others who put them on nearby graves. "I, uh, I think we'd better get out of here," he told them. He stood up and reached for the children's hands.

Yvonne moved to block their sight of the mob. "Yes, let's leave. They take out their anger for all they've lost, even if this man did not do it all himself. We do not want to be caught in their madness." She began shepherding the children away from the area.

Denis hung onto Sam's hand, but twisted around to see. "What will they do?" he asked.

Sam tugged on the boy's hand. "C'mon, Denis; you don't want to get hurt."

But now Madeleine, holding Sam's other hand, stopped to watch. "I don't blame them for being mad."

Behind them the crowd was getting louder, and they could hear occasional shouted obscenities.

Yvonne pushed her daughter ahead with enough force to get her attention. She was far more worried about escape than being gentle. "We must get home; you don't need to see this."

Sam picked Denis up and held him in his arms, head against his chest so the boy couldn't see the maddened villagers. Yvonne did the same with Madeleine and they both ran out of the cemetery.

They reached the safety of Sam's car and put the children down. "One more car ride and you'll be home," Sam told them.

Al had caught up to them and stood by, making shooing motions toward the car.

Denis scrambled into the car but Madeleine planted her feet and faced her mother. "I _did_ need to see this," she said firmly. "I don't blame those people for being mad at the German soldiers, but there are no others here and they cannot hurt a dead man. It would have been better if they'd done something to stop the soldiers coming. It has made me think of what you said a few minutes ago, Maman. You said we could defend ourselves from the soldiers – but we can do _more_. We can do things to help our _own_ soldiers. We can make it harder for the enemy soldiers if they dare to come to our farm. If enough people do this, perhaps it will make a difference; perhaps the enemy will go away."

"A little naïve maybe, but she's on the right track, Sam," Al said. "We both know that war will come to this country again."

"You're talking about the French Resistance?" Sam asked.

"Resistance, I like the sound of that!" Yvonne said. "Yes, we will resist them. As you said, Monsieur Beckett; even small actions can have a big effect. Though I pray that this will not happen again."

"We will be ready if it does," Madeleine said sagely.

"There is a gendarme; we will go and report to him what is happening and then you may take us home." Yvonne beckoned to Denis to go with her; at the moment she wanted her children with her no matter how much she trusted this American.

As they walked away Al beamed at Sam. "You did it, Sam! Little Madeleine will become an important part of the French Resistance in the Second World War. She takes the things her parents are doing in this one and improves on them. She needed to see that war affects everyone, not just her home and family. She needed to see that misplaced anger after the fact isn't effective, but channeling that anger into helpful activities is a far more valuable strategy."

Sam raised his eyebrows in misgiving. "I hate that she had to witness that, but I think you're right. I'm afraid she'll see far worse things the next time around, but she'll be strong in her faith that she's right and that she can make a difference."

"She'll make a _big_ difference," Al assured him. "Her efforts will save a lot of lives, and she'll teach her methods to others."

"She'll live through the war?" Sam asked.

Al poked at the handlink for confirmation. "Oh, yeah, sure. It won't be easy, but she'll make it just fine. I'll give you three guesses what her brother does – and the first two don't count."

Sam laughed at that. "He'll be a pilot, of course!"

"That wasn't hard to figure out," Al agreed with a grin. "Too bad you can't tell him he'll be an Ace."

"He'll figure it out in good time," Sam said. "So that just leaves one thing – what happens to John Beckett?"

"You don't remember?" Al asked in surprise.

"Should I?" Sam asked in return.

"Well, he's _your_ Great Uncle after all. You remembered him on your very first Leap, when your brain was Swiss-cheesed as Hell. Well, okay, _technically_ it was your second Leap." Al looked at his friend expectantly, making a rolling motion with one hand as if to help elicit the memory.

Sam shook his head. "It's been a rough few days, Al. He doesn't die over here, does he?"

"Nah, I'd have told you that first thing," Al said. "I'd have said 'Sam, you've gotta save your uncle's life' and we wouldn't have spent this whole time guessing what you were here to do. You really don't remember?"

Sam shrugged and looked completely clueless.

"He moves to Australia and marries Peggy," Al announced.

"Peggy?" asked Sam. "Oh, yeah, Reggie's sister. Pretty young girl."

"Your uncle thought so, too. I can't help but wonder if she wasn't the _real_ reason he went to visit Reggie and Billy in the first place," Al smirked.

"But Reggie said she was married…oh, I guess that means her husband was killed in action," Sam said.

"I'm afraid so, Sam. Not every story can have a happy ending."

"I don't know," Sam began. "As stories go, this one seems to be ending pretty well." 

Yvonne and the children walked up to Sam. "Monsieur Beckett, the gendarme will see that we get home so that you may go back to your aerodrome where you are needed," Yvonne said.

"All right, then; you be careful," Sam said. He spread his arms wide and all three crowded into his embrace. He began to feel a familiar sensation.

"I will think of you often," Madeleine said. "Adieu."

Sam barely heard her words as the blue aura surrounded him and he Leapt.

9


End file.
